


The Justice Society Initiative

by Knightfalling_for_you



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Son of Batman (2014), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Borrowing from Son of Batman, Earth-2, F/M, Just a lot of au, More of this ship, Of course in the multiverse all aus are canon, Son of Batman, not entirely shippy, of course I say ship it's more like an overly long au, the dream team no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 33,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8844646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knightfalling_for_you/pseuds/Knightfalling_for_you
Summary: “So we’re putting this city in the hands of a key puncher, a musician with control issues, a poster child, and two violent criminals.”“Not to mention a former arsonist and ex-head of security,” Mick says, raising a bottle of beer. “Cheers, Mr. Mayor.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Zoom’s dead. At least, that’s what Harrison Wells claims when he returns with his daughter, seemingly from nowhere. Neither of them will say much about it, and every time anyone asks them for specific details, they just glance at each other and cough up responses that amount to nothing.

Oh, everyone wants to believe that the monster is gone for good, but it’s hard to accept it when there’s no proof, no body, not even a story to go with the conclusion. No carcass to lift up in triumph. And sure, most of Zoom’s army is gone, but there’s no remains of them either. There’s a lingering fear that sooner or later they’ll all come back, led by someone even more terrifying than Zoom.

That’s where the Metahuman Amnesty Act comes in.

“The citizens are living in fear,” Snart says to Mick as he drafts the papers. “All of them, humans and metahumans alike. We have to show that we’re willing to accept people for who they are, powers or not.”

“I still think it’s crazy,” Mick mutters. “You want to offer amnesty to anyone who was working under Zoom. It’s going to be a hard thing to get by the city council. Mardon alone is going to be a hard sell, after his brother’s death in the police massacre. And even if the act gets passed, there’s going to be a public uproar.”

“We still have to try,” Snart insists. “Not every meta’s a criminal. And a lot of the ones that were were coerced by Zoom. Wells led the CCPD to his old hideout. There were loads of hostages there, all friends or family of people Zoom forced into his army. We have to show these people that we are done being divided, that we don’t want to be their enemies. Anything they did in the past is forgotten. We have to move forward.”

“Look, I trust you. Always have, always will. But we need to find a way to sell the public on this, or next thing you know, we’re both out of a job after the next election, and the new guy has the act scrapped.”

“I know,” Snart says, tossing a manilla folder at Mick. “That’s why I’ve been working with Detective West on this.”

_Justice Society Initiative_ , the file cover reads. “What’s this?”

“Another thing I hope city council doesn’t scrap. In order to win over the public, we need to show them metahumans they can trust, a face for the cause. The Justice Society is going to be a team of people with abilities, whether they gained them from the particle accelerator explosion or got them somewhere else. And we won’t force anyone into it, any meta can choose to apply or not, it’s their choice. STAR Labs is even offering to help fund the program if it gets off the ground.”

“And what’s this dream team of yours going to do, other than smile for the camera?”

“Fight crime, help clean up this city. And in the process, give the metahuman cause some good publicity, possibly even rehabilitate the members, if they used to work for Zoom.”

“Just one problem,” Mick says, skimming over the pages of legal jargon. “You’re going to need someone to watch these freaks and make sure they don’t step out of line.”

“You’re right, of course. Someone I can trust, someone who I know is up to the task . . .” Snart says, laying on the charm like he’s in the middle of a CCPN interview, not a chat with his head of security.

“Very funny,” Mick says, rolling his eyes and closing the file. “But if I’m off babysitting the nut jobs, who’s going to make sure you don’t get assassinated?”

“First of all, my public approval rating is at an all-time high, so I’d like to think that’s not a likely scenario. Second of all, I think I’ve already found a good candidate.” He turns his laptop towards Mick to show a picture of a slender blond woman with a fierce gleam in her eye. “Sara Lance. A decorated police officer from Starling City who helped save lives during the Undertaking.”

“So why’d she come here? Starling City’s where all the action is these days.”

“She’s been taking some time off. Something about a death in the family and needing to be there for her parents. But she’s tough and smart.”

“Not to mention easier on the eyes. You look at that photo a lot?” 

Snart rolls his eyes. “The point is, I think she’s up to the task. I’ve been talking to her—“

“Without telling me first? Cruel, Snart.”

“—and she’s interested in the job.”

“If this girl’s so wonderful, why not just have her take care of your little justice club?”

“It’s like I said earlier. I need someone I can trust to vet the candidates, train them, and coordinate them in the field. Mick, I’ve known you longer than anyone else, even Lisa. So will you think about it? Look, if the act and the initiative fail, I’ll let it go. But if they make it . . .”

Mick sighs. “I’ll train the freaks.”

. . .

It’s a dumb promise to make. Both the act and the initiative pass, thanks to the charisma of Mayor Snart (and the enchanting chief of staff who just so happens to be his younger sister). Before Mick knows it, he’s knee deep in applications from all the crazies who want to join the Justice Society. He sifts through descriptions of all sorts of ridiculous powers, from a girl who writes that she can talk anyone into doing what she wants, to a guy who claims he’s a reincarnated Egyptian prince.

In the end, Mick narrows it down to five characters. Five people with decently developed powers who won’t kill him in his sleep. Probably. He prints out their information, slipping it into files for Snart to approve.

*** _Felicity Smoak_**

**_Codename: Overwatch_ **

**_Age: 12_ **

**_Abilities: Can telepathically connect with (and control) any piece of technology by converting her brain waves to radio waves, genius-level intellect._ **

**_Criminal record: Independent hacker._ **

**_*Note: the candidate is visually impaired. Apart from her powers, she is physically blind. This condition is believed to be a result of an altercation with her father, Noah Cutter._ **

 

**_Hartley Rathaway_ **

**_Codename: Pied Piper_ **

**_Age: 27_ **

**_Ability: Can control anyone’s actions with a hypnotic flute he created. Science prodigy._ **

**_Criminal record: Property damage._ **

 

**_Jesse Wells_ **

**_Codename: Jesse Quick_ **

**_Age: 18_ **

**_Ability: Superspeed, genius-level intellect._ **

**_Criminal record: None._ **

 

**_Roy Harper_ **

**_Codename: Arsenal_ **

**_Age: 25_ **

**_Ability: Has a prosthetic arm. Both he and the arm were affected by the particle accelerator explosion. He now has the power to transform his prosthetic arm into almost any type of portable weapon. He’s also a mechanical genius._ **

**_Criminal record: Petty theft, gang violence._ **

 

**_*Amaya Jiwe_ **

**_Codename: Vixen_ **

**_Age: 26_ **

**_Ability: Possesses a mystical totem that grants her access to the powers of any animal, is also a fifth-degree black belt and master strategist._ **

**_Criminal record: One of Zoom’s former lieutenants._ **

**_*Note: The candidate was formerly engaged to Rex Tyler, whose dead body was found in one of Zoom’s lairs. He appears to have been a hostage to ensure her cooperation._ **

 

“You call this a team?” Snart mutters, after he’s been through each and every single paper.

“Not really. Best we’ve got, though. And this was your idea, you know.”

“So we’re putting this city in the hands of a key puncher, a musician with control issues, a poster child, and two violent criminals.”

“Not to mention a former arsonist and ex-head of security,” Mick says, raising a bottle of beer. “Cheers, Mr. Mayor.”


	2. Chapter 2

Turns out it’s not enough to work with the freak show, Mick has to live with them too. Snart and STAR Labs have already picked out a brownstone townhouse on 52nd Avenue to function as living quarters for the crazies.

He’s standing outside the place now, watching his breath turn into smoke.The bricks are a bland maroon, though it’s possible they might’ve been red once. There are a few windows, but any view of they could offer is marred by dust, dirt, and black shutters. Mick sighs, lugging his suitcase up the steps. _It ain’t the Hilton_ , he thinks. But then again, in a city full of buildings devastated by metahuman attacks, especially Black Siren’s, beggars can’t be choosers.

Mick slips a key out of his pocket, unlocking the front door and slipping inside. He pulls his suitcase up a winding staircase and decides to set it down in a room on the second floor. The brownstone has three stories, so it’s probably best if he stays close to the middle at all times. The bedroom he picks out is covered in grayish-green wallpaper that’s peeling off the walls and the air smells vaguely of mold and mothballs. Mick sets his suitcase down next to a puny twin bed, which is covered in ridiculous floral sheets and a fluffy rose-colored blanket. He searches the other rooms for better bedding, but they’re all pretty girly, so he decides to stick with what he’s got.

He glances briefly at the bureau and closet, but decides he’ll unpack later, after everyone else is settled in. It’s four o’clock now, they should be showing up anytime. As he glances at his watch, the doorbell rings as if on cue. He flicks off the lights in his new bedroom and then trudges down the stairs.

The first one to arrive is the kid, Felicity. Her hair, a dark ebony, is pulled back into a ponytail behind dark sunglasses. She’s clothed in all black too, from her lips to her shift to her laced-up boots. The only exception is the white cane in her right hand. Her mother is a hysterical woman with bleach-blonde hair pulled into an updo, paired with a green dress that’s even shorter than her coat. She insists on being shown every inch of the facilities to make sure it’s safe, before finally relinquishing her baby girl (after a three-minute long hug). 

“So,” Mick asks Felicity, looking her up and down after her mother leaves, “who died?”

She shrugs, fiddling with a silver necklace with the symbol of an ankh on it. “My motivation, I guess.”

“I take it joining this club wasn’t your idea.”

She shakes her head. “Mom begged, cried, and pleaded until I gave in. She’s convinced that if I don’t get my life together now, I’ll end up arrested for killed by the Hood. At least in Central City, there’s less chance of the latter.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mick mutters. “Which room do you want?”

“One with a spectacular view,” she snarks. “And I think I’ll stick to the first floor.”

Mick leads her to a room with tacky orange and blue polka-dotted walls, figuring there’s no harm in giving her the ugliest accommodations. As soon as he leads her to an outlet, she plugs in her computer, not even bothering with the rest of her things.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he mutters, closing the door behind him.

The next one to show up is the speedster, Jesse. Before Mick can say anything, she’s already darted in and out of the house in the blink of an eye.

“I’ll take the blue room on the third floor,” she says with a grin, sticking out her hand. Mick shakes it. Then she sprints out to give her dad a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and rushes back to set up her room without further ado.

“She wasn’t one for long goodbyes, even before she got her powers,” Wells says with a chuckle. “When it was time for her to move into college all she said was ‘Love ya’ before driving off.” His smile fades a little. “Look, Rory. I funded this program because I want to solve the problems I caused. And I believe it can do a lot of good. But . . .” His voice grows harsh and his eyes burn behind the frames of his glasses. “If any of those criminals lay a hand on her, I will not hesitate to show up, shoot them with a pulse rifle, and throw them in a cell so terrible it makes Iron Heights look like a palace. So take care of my daughter.”

“Got it,” Mick mutters. “Besides, making sure the team doesn’t kill each other is pretty much my job description.”

Wells gives him a pointed glare before leaving in a sleek navy blue Rolls-Royce. Not five minutes later, Harper shows up (Mick thanks his lucky stars that the kid wasn’t there in time to see car and get any ideas).

Harper’s a lanky, muscular guy wrapped up in a ratty red jacket, blue jeans, and combat boots. His dark brown rat’s nest of hair sticks up in every direction underneath his hood. Today his right arm’s a metallic, silver bat. There are no parents there to drop him off. He just gives Mick the once-over, asks when dinner is (6:30) and tromps up the stairs and into a second-story room without another word. In a way, Harper reminds Mick of himself a little bit, back when he landed in Juvie for a few months as a kid. But unlike Mick, it doesn’t seem like Harper’s stay was a one-time thing.

The next arrival is the Piper, Hartley. He shows up alone too, with just a briefcase and the clothes on his back (a ratty gray sweater, glasses, black jeans, and boots). There’s a pipe clutched in his hand, and he glares up at Mick, ignoring the fact that the older man has at least a foot on him.

“I take it you’re the mayor’s lackey,” he says drily. Mick shrugs as they enter the house.

“More or less. Which room do you want? There are two left, one on the first and another on the third.”

“And who do I have the pleasure of rooming next to?” he asks with a voice dripping of sarcasm.

“First floor, you got a goth hacker. Third floor, hyperactive speedster.”

“First floor it is,” Hartley mutters, trudging down the hallway.

Mick waits on the steps for the animal girl. But as the sun goes down, he begins to wonder if she’s coming at all. As it gets colder, Mick heads inside and barks that it’s time for dinner.

“Where’s the meal?” Hartley asks, glancing at the empty table.

“I’m not a chef,” Mick growls. “It’s fend-for-yourself. Think you can handle that?” 

“Orokana niku no atama,” he mutters under his breath. Jesse just laughs. 

A scan of the refrigerator proves that there’s not much to work with, so they end up ordering take-out instead. Felicity wants Chinese, but Hartley argues that Tai’s better. Harper just says that _For the love of God can't we just all have Big Belly Burger like civilized Americans_ , and Jesse just says that whatever they order, she needs twelve.

Mick ends up getting sixteen pizzas, and resolves to take the team grocery shopping tomorrow. Maybe it’ll lead to bonding (hey, a guy can hope).

The doorbell rings, and Jesse rushes to answer it.

“Uh, Mr. Rory?” she calls, her voice going up an octave. “It’s not the pizza guy.” Mick gets up and walks over to the door, ignoring the angry mutters of Harper, who’s even grumpier when he’s hungry.

On the other side of the door is a dark-skinned woman with long curly hair under a red cloche hat. She wears a matching shift dress, gloves, and heels, along a gray trench coat. She’s about half a foot shorter than Mick, but there’s something dangerous about her, despite her diminutive size. Maybe it’s the gleam in her eye, or the way she doesn’t so much smile as bare her teeth. Maybe it’s the totem wrapped around her neck, two rows of sharpened stones separated by the carving of a fox’s head. But if Mick had to put his finger on it, the most striking thing about this woman is the way she holds herself, the way she looks at him wild beast sizing up its prey.

“I take it you’re the animal lady,” Mick says, pulling back the door to let her in. 

“I take it this is the madhouse,” she fires back, dragging a suitcase behind her and up the stairs. And, just like that, the gang’s all together. 

Well, more or less.


	3. Chapter 3

Less than a day in, and Amaya’s almost certain that a life on the run would be less hectic than living in this asylum.

To begin with, she’s awoken at five in the morning by a shouting match that somehow carries all the way from the kitchen on the first floor to her cramped room on the third.

“WHAT IS THIS CRAP?!”

“IT’S TOFU, YOU IDIOT, I BROUGHT IT WITH ME!”

“WHAT KIND OF PERSON PACKS UP THEIR MOST TREASURED BELONGINGS AND THINKS, 'OH, YOU KNOW WHAT I SHOULD REALLY BRING? FREAKIN’ TOFU!'”

“IF IT OFFENDS YOU SO MUCH, HARPER, JUST EAT THE LEFTOVER PIZZA!”

“Well . . . MAYBE I WILL!”

Eloquent to a fault, those two. Even after Amaya somehow drifts back to sleep after the incident, she’s awoken again at six fifty-three by the sound of an annoying relentless fire alarm. She curses at the shrill beeps, pushes her pillows and blankets aside, and runs out of her room and down the seemingly smokeless stairs. When she arrives in front of the Brownstone, everyone else is already there, a mess of ratty pajamas and frizzy hair (so at least Amaya fits in for once, with her simple blue nightgown and tangled locks). They’re all glaring at the speedster, Jesse. At her bare feet lies a sizzling mess of melted rubber and canvas mixed together with string.

“I thought I’d take morning run,” she says guiltily. “But when I got back, I, uh . . . didn’t notice my feet were on fire, and it sorta set off the smoke detectors . . .”

“Don’t you just _hate_ when that happens?” the hacker, Felicity, mutters under her breath. 

“Alright, kids, back inside,” Mick mutters. They file in, one after one, each groaning and cursing under their breath. Amaya hangs back, noticing Mick stoop down to scoop the gooey mess of melted sneaker off the pavement. He tosses it in a nearby trashcan before turning to Jesse, who’s still outside, fidgeting and biting her lip.

“Don’t worry, kid,” he says. “You’ll get the hang of it. But you might want to stick to uh, tougher shoes.”

Amaya turns and goes inside before either of them realize she was watching. It’s not like she just witnessed anything monumental. But still, she’s a little surprised. She expected a harsher reaction to Jesse’s mistake, some sort of punishment for the trouble her powers caused. 

In Zoom’s ranks, there was no room for mistakes and slip-ups. You messed up once, and that was it, you got a vibrating hand to the chest. Amaya wasn’t expecting the mayor’s representative to shoot them if they fell out of line, but still . . . she had been expecting worse treatment.

_Don’t be too sure he won’t crack down_ , she reminds herself. _That girl’s the new hero in town, the poster child of the group. Of course he’s nice to her. But the rest of us? Criminals? It’s only a matter of time before he lashes out._

Amaya pushes those thoughts aside as she scans the fridge. The shelves are bare except for a jar of anchovies and a sticky residue of past meals. The others must’ve scavenged it like a pack of hyenas before she got up. Tea it is.

She grabs a kettle from one of the cabinets, fills it with water, and sets it on the stove to boil, briefly leaving the room to retrieve a packet of spiced tea from her belongings. As Amaya waits, she grabs the newspaper from a nearby counter, pulls up a stool, and waits at the scuffed dinner table, made of a sickly yellow-brown wood that doesn’t match the pink and green argyle pattern on the wallpaper.

Amaya skips over the front page story ( _GENIUS OR GAFFE: IS SNART’S METAHUMAN AMNESTY ACT BRILLIANT, OR BOUND TO FAIL?)_ and over to the obituaries. The section is thankfully short (it has been ever since Zoom disappeared). Only three deaths today; a cancer patient and two victims of a car accident.

As she skims the summaries of the victim’s lives and next-of-kin, the whistle blows sharply. She hears a cry from the other room. 

“Make it stop!” hisses the boy with the glasses in the hoodie (Hartley—that’s his name). His hands pressed against his ears frantically as he grits his teeth in frustration Quickly, Amaya takes the kettle off the stove and pours herself a cup, setting her teabag in it to steep. As the water changes from clear to rich brown, she turns to look at him.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

“Sensory overload,” he mutters, dropping his arms to his side. “I have tinnitus, so there’s always a ringing in my ears. I can usually block it out with the right aids, but I’m still sensitive to both loud and shrill noises.”

“This morning must’ve been hell, then,” she says, pouring the rest of the boiled water into another mug with a teabag. She walks over and passes it to him, even though she knows it’s a poor apology for the pain.

Hartley glances at her, furrowing his eyebrows. He stares down at the mug and sniffs at it. “What’s in it?”

“Some cinnamon, cloves, ginger, a few other spices I don’t quite know the names of, to be honest. Not the same as pain meds, but . . .”

“Thanks,” he says, still seemingly shocked. Almost as if he’s not used to simple acts of kindness like this. _That shouldn’t shock you,_ Amaya chides herself. _Most of the people here wouldn’t have gotten in trouble with the law if they’d had people looking out for them._

With Amaya, though, it’s the opposite. She had people she loved and they loved her back, and that was the problem. To Zoom, people were nothing but leverage. That’s all Rex was to him, a hostage to keep her in line. Disposable in the end.

And even if Zoom is dead, that doesn’t change a thing. Amaya’s heard the stories from her mother and grandmother before her, and all the ancestors that came before them. Even before metas, vigilantes, or the War of Americas, there were always people who would come after her family, people seeking the animal spirit totem for their own greedy purposes. Generals, tyrants, warriors, and the like. There will always be people trying to exploit the power Amaya possesses.

In a way, Mayor Snart’s no different, for all his speeches about justice and protecting Central City. His program—no, his _initiative_ is aimed at using the power of this team for his own ends. Sure, he says their purpose is to keep the city safe. But how many liars before him used that very same lie of protection to do terrible things?

Amaya’s been tasked to protect others. It wasn’t her choice, really. It was decided for her the second the totem bonded with her spirit. But Zoom perverted her power, using it for destruction instead. Despite Amaya’s doubts, this initiative might be able to fix that damage.

It just can’t reverse all of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's a bit slow. I'll try to pick things up soon. 
> 
> (Also, the tofu argument was a little inspired by Beast Boy and Cyborg's constant arguments over tofu in Teen Titans).


	4. Chapter 4

The inevitable question: if you’re going to be shopping for a ragtag bunch of superfreaks, do you take them with you to the store or trust them to watch the house? Mick weighs the options in his mind. On the one hand, if he takes the “team” out into public, it’ll probably take all of five seconds for them to get into trouble. But on the other hand, if he leaves them all at home alone, there’s a good chance the house might actually be on fire when he gets back.

This team is his responsibility, so it’s not like he can have someone else watch them while he’s out, and he doesn’t have any assistants to do the shopping for him. And leaving them unsupervised just isn’t an option. The only one without a criminal record is Jesse, who’s also the second-youngest of the bunch, and it’s no use putting her in charge, because there’s no way the others would listen. Felicity is twelve, aside from other obvious factors, she doesn’t seem to be one for order and rules. As for the others, well . . .Roy’s a loose cannon, Hartley’s more likely to insult his new housemates than help them, and Amaya is an unknown variable. She’s actually the one person who hasn’t caused any trouble . . . yet.

So since there’s no team leader to keep the rest in line, Mick decides to take them to the grocery store with him at eight, since no one’s been able to sleep since the fire alarm went off. Surprisingly, the one to argue the most about the trip is Jesse.

“Just give me a list and I’ll get everything,” she says, shrugging. “It’d take two minutes. Three, if the check-out line’s long.

“That’s not going to work,” Mick says. “Everyone has to come.”

“Why?”

“If everyone stays home but you, they’ll resent you for getting to go out. If you stay home and everyone else goes, they’ll be jealous that you didn’t have to help with the chore. I can’t look like I’m treating anyone differently, or else the others will start to assume—”

“That you have favorites,” she says with a sigh, crossing her arms. “Fine.”

“Besides, if you’re whizzing around the grocery store, it’ll blow your cover. I know who all of you are, sure, and so does Mayor Snart. But the rest of this city doesn’t know the secret identities of the Justice Society.” He raises his voice, calling to the rest. “If anyone asks, you’re all interns with the mayor’s office.”

Felicity snorts at this. “And how are you going to explain that Mayor Snart hired a twelve year-old blind girl?”

Mick just shrugs. “I’ll just say you’re my niece or something.” He can’t tell, but he’s pretty sure that she’s rolling her eyes behind her sunglasses as she blows a purple bubble with her gum.

One by one, the recruits pile into his car. Felicity crawls into the back since she doesn’t need the leg room, and Jesse offers to sit there as well. Amaya says nothing and sits in the middle. Hartley snags shotgun before Harper can get it (he grumbles a little, but sits behind Mick, who’s in the driver’s seat). The car itself isn’t much to look at, a simple brown model the color of flat root beer, with a few dents and bullet holes, but it runs well and can hold up to seven people, so Mick’s not about to complain.

After starting the engine, he switches on the radio, only for the team to start arguing about that. Hartley wants something quiet and classical, Roy prefers boisterous jazz, and Felicity loves show tunes, which he wouldn’t have guessed. So he ends up turning the music off.

“Fine. No tunes,” he says, stopping at a red light. “Then let’s talk.”

“About what?” Hartley replies drily. “How we should be so glad to be on the receiving end of glorious Mayor Snart’s charity? Why we’re lucky to be getting a chance to make up for our sins?” His voice drips with sarcasm.

“How we’ll be making a ‘better, safer Central City’?” Felicity says, sarcastically quoting one of Len’s speeches.

“How you’ll throw us in Iron Heights if we don’t stay in line?” Roy mutters.

“Actually, I don’t have that authority. You’re fine as long as you don’t piss off Detective West. She’s the initiative’s police liaison, so if you want to get arrested or avoid doing so, talk to her.”

“Why was she in Atlantis for four months?” Felicity asks suddenly, her voice tinged with curiosity. Mick has to stop himself from turning in his seat to look at her, and instead stares straight ahead at the road before him.

“How’d you know about that?” Mick asks. He and Snart barely knew anything about it. One morning, she and her husband were working at the CCPD like usual, and the next, they were gone. The couple had left a voice message about needing a leave of absence. Their request was granted, even though the timing was less than ideal, after Zoom’s citywide rampage.

“If it’s on the internet, I can find it,” Felicity replies with a shrug. “I wanted to know where she and her husband went, so I hacked Barry Allen’s laptop. I saw that he’d recently bought tickets to Atlantis. It wasn’t hard to do the math.”

“To be honest, I don’t know why they went. We really could’ve used them,” Mick said, stopping at a red light. “Okay, my turn to ask a question. I want to know why each of you applied for the initiative. No joking, no judging. I’m just curious.”

There’s a moment of silence. The team is probably staring at each other, pointing fingers and mouthing excuses.

“I’ll start,” Harper says, after a minute goes by. “I’m not in this for truth, justice, the American way, or whatever.. But the Flash . . . Jay Garrick . . . he saved my life. There was a shooting, and I thought I was done for, until he swooped in and caught all the bullets. I guess I sort of owe it to the guy’s memory to help this city.” Harper catches himself, clearing his throat. “But I’m only doing this because I owe him.”

Mick catches a glimpse of Jesse’s face in the rearview mirror as she hears Harper’s story. She opens her mouth like she wants to say something a few times, but ends up closing it, as if she’s decided not to. Still, Mick can’t help but notice something grim and fearful in her eyes as she listens to Harper talk about Jay Garrick. There’s also something else, something fiercer in her gaze: hate.

“What about you, speedy?” Mick asks.

“Me?” Jesse asks, quickly looking up and shifting her expression from pensive to resigned. 

“Fine. Zoom kept me prisoner. For an entire year, he chained me in a cell like I was an animal, tortured me, and only fed me when he absolutely needed to. I was powerless, that entire time. There was nothing I could do to stop him or save myself. But now . . . now the next time someone tries to hurt me, I can do something about it. And if someone like Zoom tries to take this city again, I’m going to take them down.”

Mick can’t help but smile at the girl’s nerve. “Next?”

Felicity lets out a sigh. “It’s like I told you yesterday. My mom thinks this is the best may to get me on the straight and narrow. You know what she was going to do if I didn’t get into the initiative? Send me to an all girls’ boarding school. No thanks.”

“What about you, Rat-boy?” he asks Hartley. He doesn’t have to turn around to know he’s on the receiving end of a glare. 

“I decided to damage a certain building in Gotham City, which landed me in Blackgate. My lawyer, Harvey, heard about the initiative and thought it might have a shot of getting me out of jail. He figured there was a 50/50 chance I’d get in.”

“Wait a second,” Felicity says. “You’re the one who wrecked the Rathaway Industries building? ‘Cause that was _awesome._ I heard about it from this kid online, Lonnie—”

“Your family owns a billion-dollar company?” Harper asks. “And you decided to _attack_ them?”

“We had a difference of opinion on certain matters,” Hartley murmurs darkly. “Such as who I can date and what gender they should be. They removed me from their will, so I decided to remove one of their facilities.”

“That’s everyone but you, Vix,” Mick says, as he parks the car. “You’ve been pretty quiet. What’s your motive?”

She lifts her head up to lock his eyes with hers, as he glances back at her. Then she says one word.

“Redemption.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Isn't throwing in references to two Batman villains a little much?  
> Me to me: DO IT.
> 
> So, yeah. Earth-2 Harvey Dent is Hartley's lawyer, and Earth-2 Lonnie Machin is one of Felicity's hacker friends online He's that one friend we all have, you know the one, who won't stop raging against the government and claims he has a foolproof plan to take them down, but never actually does anything.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes just under two hours for the team to find everything they need at the supermarket. This is partially because A) Felicity insists on finding both kosher _and_ vegan products, B) Jesse runs off to another store to buy an entire fridge for her room, with the assurances she’ll pay for the extra electricity bills, as well as the food she needs to support her metabolism, and C), the bagger in check-outs swears he saw Roy try to rob the place once (although somehow he miraculously forgets after being handed an extra twenty dollars).The total on the receipt isn’t pretty, but Mick keeps it anyway, planning to add it to the pile in his room (which he’ll gleefully drop off on Snart’s desk later, when it’s time for him to get reimbursed). 

After the team is done carrying in groceries and putting them away (miraculously, only three eggs and one melon were damaged in the process), they all start to drift back to their rooms.

“Not so fast,” Mick says, blocking the stairs. “It’s time to train.”

“Train?” Harper says, rolling his eyes. “What, do you want us to go out and stop muggers or something?”

Mick shakes his head. “I wouldn’t trust any of you to stop a cockroach without taking out a building. I’m talking about sparring, with each other. There’s a gym facility on the third floor. All of you, get changed and meet me upstairs in five minutes.”

“Riiight,” Felicity says, stretching the word out. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly equipped for combat.”

“There are cameras in the gym,” Mick says. “You can access them with your mind, can’t you?” Felicity nods, a frown forming on her face. “There’s your eyes. Look, I know you’re more of a tech person, but you still need to be ready if someone attacks your base. We’ll start with basic self-defense.”

“Fine,” she says reluctantly.

“Any other questions?” The rest of them shake their heads. “Good. Upstairs gym, five minutes. Go.”

As they head their separate ways, Mick goes back to his own room. He switches from his henley and jeans to a gray t-shirt and cargo pants, along with a pair of brown military boots. He decides to leave his gun behind, but slips a pair of brass knuckles into his pocket, just in case.

When he meets the team upstairs, they’re all dressed in their own various versions of a workout outfit. For Jesse, it’s her friction-proof suit, mask and all. Felicity wears a tank top, shorts, and sneakers (all black, of course). Roy’s wearing a white undershirt and basketball shorts, with his jacket tie around his waist and his right arm fashioned into sharp blade. Hartley’s wearing his regular clothes, but there’s a long, silver flute in his hands. Amaya’s dressed in a yellow and black jumpsuit that’s just a little too tight, and Mick has to make an effort not to stare.

“Okay,” Mick says. “Here’s the rules. No blades, no hypnosis, and if someone says they’ve had enough, then give them a break to rest. Piper, you take Harper, Jesse, you spar with Amaya, and Felicity, I’ll teach you some of the basics. In ten minutes, we’ll switch off.”

Mick watches the team take various positions around the grungy gym, ignoring the punching bags and firing range. He turns to Felicity, and starts telling her about simple ways to take out someone who attacks her. Most of them just involve using knees and elbows, and aren’t to hard to learn. When it’s Felicity’s turn to act the movements out, she hits Mick directly in the nose with her elbow, causing blood to coming gushing out.

“Good work,” he mutters, as he grabs a box of tissues and wipes the blood away from his face, smiling in spite of the mess. “Just do that, and you’ll be fine, kid.”

For someone who said they couldn’t fight, Felicity can be pretty fierce, even if her technique is simple and blunt. After Mick’s nosebleed stops and their session resumes, she manages to knee him in the crotch twice, and even knocks the wind completely out of him once. 

To be fair, Mick’s a little distracted watching the others fight. Harper’s turned his right arm into an eskrima stick now and is doing a pretty good job of fending Hartley off (Mick would almost feel sorry for him, but the little shit keeps insulting Harper every time he stops for breath). Amaya gets in a few good hits at Jesse, but there’s really no competition. 

“Next round,” Mick calls. Amaya and Jesse stop, panting, but Hartley keeps going, trying to punch Harper in the face. The fight lasts a little longer, until Harper knocks him in the stomach and he falls to the ground with a reverberating _thud._

“Stupid brute,” Hartley mutters, though it’d be a little more menacing if he wasn’t splayed across the floor helplessly.

“Okay. Hartley, you train with Felicity. Go easy on him,” Mick says with a smirk. “Jesse, you’ll fight Harper. I’ll take Amaya.”

As the others start, Amaya walks towards him. “I wouldn’t call this a fair fight,” she says, fingering her totem. 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he mutters, shifting into a fight stance. She runs toward him, her right arm raised to punch Mick in the jaw. He just barely ducks under it, and comes back with a punch to the gut. But before Amaya can hit the ground, her body lifts up and off the floor, until she’s floating a good three feet above Mick’s head. Then she launches toward him, like a falcon in flight, knocking him to the ground before he can even think.

She’s pinned Mick down now, and he’s trying to think of a way out (which is difficult, since he’s also trying not to be a little turned on). He manages to slip a hand into his pocket. He finds the brass knuckles and uses them to clock Amaya in the jaw. As she reels from the blow, he rolls over, reversing the situation. She’s right beneath him, but before he can finish it, he’s distracted by a noise.

It’s the sound of Felicity clearing her throat. The whole team has stopped their training and is watching him and Amaya to see what they’ll do next. Mick’s not sure if they’re watching because they’re worried he might hurt her or if they think something else is going on. Either way, he lets go of Amaya, sitting up. She scowls and punches him in the jaw hard, before getting up and stalking out of the room like an enraged cat.

After a beat of silence, Jesse raises her hand. “Sooo . . . does this mean we’re done training?”


	6. Chapter 6

The first week in the brownstone is uneasy and disorganized, like the first week of a new semester, when you’re trying to figure out how often you need to show up and whether or not, where to sit, and if you got the right books. Amaya’s pretty sure that no one in the initiative really knows what they’ve gotten themselves into. 

Jesse’s the first to really settle in, thanks to an altered perception of time (and the experience of someone who’s used to having her world turned upside-down). Felicity’s apathetic demeanor makes it hard to tell whether or not she’s still uncomfortable in her new “home”, but she doesn’t complain too much, preferring to focus on surfing the internet with her powers. Roy’s a hothead, so it’s best to avoid interacting with him at all, just to minimize the risk of conflict. And his blatant disrespect for everything and everyone (well, except his apparent savior, Jay Garrick) is hardly charming.

Hartley differs depending on the situation. As long as the others respect his boundaries, he’s fairly calm. But the second someone does the tiniest thing to annoy him, it’s war. Hartley’s not a physical fighter, but he can insult your intelligence in seven different languages, and if that doesn’t work, there’s the small matter of his hypnotic flute. After an incident involving Roy, six sticks of butter, and an impromptu performance of “Hello” by Adele, everyone’s pretty careful not to get on Hartley’s bad side. 

Amaya doesn’t hate the brownstone, but she doesn’t think of it as home either. It’s an in-between place, a halfway house for powered criminals that the government wants to reform and control. This might be her life, for now, but in the end, the initiative is just another job, another means to an end. Amaya does her best to appease the others, but only to make her experience bearable. She doesn’t really trust any of them, least of all Mick Rory.

Mick Rory, their appointed supervisor and trainer. Mick Rory, former head of security to Mayor Snart . . . and, Amaya finds out from Felicity, a former felon. According to city records, back when he was a teenager, Mick set his family’s house on fire, supposedly by accident. He got sent to juvie for the offense. And who should he meet, Felicity adds with a grin, but a young Leonard Snart, arrested for petty theft.

Snart ended up shortening his sentence by supplying valuable evidence he’d been collecting on a corrupt cop—his father. He was eventually released and judged fit to raise his younger sister, Lisa. And when Mick had served his sentence, the two decided to attend college together. And, one day, it seemed, they’d decided to find a way to save Central City.

_A nice enough story_ , Amaya thinks one morning, as she mixes her oatmeal. _And it’s probably tempting for the citizens of Central City to see Snart and his friend as unlikely heroes. But how do we know they’re not in this for themselves?_ Amaya’s never met Snart in person (although she probably will, since there’s bound to be a press conference about the team sooner or later, hopefully later), so she’s not sure what to think of him. It’s easy to be seem heartfelt and honest in front of crowds of constituents; it’s another to actually be upfront with people on an individual basis. Amaya won’t really know if he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing until they’re face-to-face.

As for Mick, he’s unpredictable. One minute, he’s a grumpy, growling ball of anger who doesn’t want to deal with anyone. The next, he’s teaching Felicity how to take down someone twice her size. Amaya’s pretty sure the man’s not the perfect leader, but for the most part, when he barks orders, people listen. So far, he’s just had them practice combat. Sometimes powers are fair play, and sometimes only Felicity gets to use hers (in order to see through the cameras). There is, however, one constant: Mick hasn’t sparred with Amaya since the first session.

Her mind wanders back to the encounter, remembering the triumphant feeling of pouncing on him, pressing him onto the ground and flat on his back, with almost no escape . . . that is, until he punched her in the jaw with brass knuckles and turned the tables. She’d been underneath him then, inches away from grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him even closer so she could feel his warm breath on her face, lean forward and—

That’s when Amaya stops, reminds herself to get a grip, and starts stirring the oatmeal even faster. She’s pretty sure the totem brings out her more primal instincts. That’s the only rational explanation for what almost happened that day. Mick isn’t Rex. He isn’t like Rex in the slightest.

Rex was a chemist, a man of science. He liked order and always wearing a freshly ironed shirt and a neat tie every day. Early to bed, early to rise, that was Rex. And he was always the chivalrous type, holding open doors for everyone behind him and buying Amaya flowers even when there was no occasion. Mick, on the other hand . . .

“Did you finish the bacon?” he growls as he walks into the kitchen, smelling of cheap booze. Amaya rolls her eyes as she chops up a banana and some strawberries on a wooden cutting board.

“Roy did,” she says, sprinkling the red and yellow fruit over her bowl. And then, before she can stop herself: “Besides, are you sure you can make bacon without the room catching on fire?”

Mick’s eyes narrow and he glances away from her, choosing to peer into the fridge instead. “I see you’ve been talking to the geek squad.”

Well, Amaya’s already opened the can of worms, so she might as well start fishing. “So is it true? Did you—”

“I did,” he replies gruffly, pulling out a loaf of white bread and container of tuna salad. “Anything else you want to know?”

“Well, I think it’s certainly interesting that the mayor assigned decided to have an ex-con head up an initiative,” she says, tasting a spoonful of hot oatmeal

“Well, apart from Speedy Gonzalez, I’m in good company, aren’t I?” he mutters, spreading tuna onto bread with a knife sloppily. 

“That’s another thing,” Amaya says, swallowing. “Who, exactly, decided the roster for this supposed team?”

“Officially, that’s confidential.” She opens her mouth to speak, but Mick holds up a hand. “But unofficially, that was also my job.”

Amaya lets out a harsh laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I don’t kid, sweetheart.”

“You had the pick of any meta in Central City, and you chose the five of us?”  


“First of all, not a lot of people applied. This is a city with a population of 750,000. Approximately half those people have powers of some kind. Break that down into the people who know they have powers and like to show them off. Then think about the small number of people who are okay with using their powers for good and working with the government. It’s not a large number, and it’s made up of quite a few nutjobs. There was actually one applicant who spoke and wrote entirely in rhyme and always wore a top hat.”

“So, what you’re saying is, we were the best of the worst,” Amaya mutters. Mick shrugs.

“More or less.”

“You sure Snart didn’t just choose us for minority votes?” Amaya says, raising an eyebrow. “Because you’ve got a blind jew, a gay man, a black woman, and an amputee all in one house. It sounds like the set-up for a bad joke.”

“We didn—” Mick starts to speak, but he’s cut off by an insistent buzzing. He pulls silver flip phone out of his pocket and puts it up to his ear. “Hey, West. Wait—really? Where? 13th and Broadway. Are you sure we—okay, okay, I get it. We’ll be over as soon as we can. For now, have the area blocked off to the public. Bye.” 

“Detective West?” Amaya asks. Mick nods.

“Metahuman bank robbery downtown. Looks like it’s time to see if this initiative actually works.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I didn't realize until I was mid-way through that the team is made up almost entirely of minorities. I didn't do that on purpose, but it's still a good thing. I think the Arrowverse has gotten somewhat better at including them (although don't get me wrong, is hasn't been perfect).
> 
> Aaaand yeah. Another Gotham reference. We're also on hiatus and I enjoy making fun of Jervis Tetch. He deserves it.
> 
> P.S. The only way I will accept the clip of Amaya and Nate in bed in the promo for 2x09 is if it's some sort of crazy dream/nightmare sequence. Otherwise, it makes no sense.


	7. Chapter 7

“Here’s the deal,” Mick says, once he’s got the entire team in the living room. “There are metahumans currently robbing a pharmacy downtown. Actually, human is a loose term. They’re part animal.”

“Like King Shark?” Jesse asks. Mick nods.

“Only this crew is half-man, half-bat. I figure Felicity stays here as tech support, I’ll be helping her and running point. Jesse, Amaya, and Hartley, you’ll take on the manbats. Harper, you’re staying put.”

“What?” Harper growls. “Why do they get to go and I don’t?”

“Simple, really. Jesse’s got the most experience fighting crime, animals are kinda Amaya’s thing, and Hartley’s got a sonic-based weapon, which might come in handy, since bats have that special echo-whatever crap. Also, you’ve got zero impulse control, so you’re sitting this one out unless something goes wrong. If that happens, then we’ll come in as back-up, and I promise you’ll get to bash someone’s head in. Okay?”

“Fine,” Roy mutters. Mick’s pretty sure he’s only backing down because he knows Mick has a gun in his jacket (well, that, and the mayor, police, and DA on speed-dial). “But next time I get to go.”

“Sure. Unless you piss me off.” Mick turns to the others. “Suit up. Vixen, you’ll fly. Jesse, you’ll have to carry Piper.” 

The two exchange an uneasy glance. “Bridal or piggyback?” Jesse asks, scratching the back of her neck. Hartley lets out an annoyed sigh.

“Neither of those sounds particularly intimidating.”

“Well, they’re the best ways to avoid motion sickness or you running into anything,” she says, crossing her arms.

“Suit up now, decide that later,” Mick says. “The clock’s ticking.”

. . .

“Any bright ideas?” Jesse asks, looking at the barricaded pharmacy door. Amaya fingers her totem, concentrating on the elephant spirit. Then, with a running start, she kicks the door in with a satisfying thud. Three manbats stop their raid to look at the team, and even Amaya’s taken aback at their ghastly appearance. From the torso down, they wear pants and look like humans. But above the waist, their bodies are grotesque, with arms twisted into brown, bony wings, and fur-covered heads (including large, pointed ears and ugly snouts). Their eyes are red and beady, and their fangs are bared in hatred. In their wrinkled claws they clutch bottle of pills, taken from the fallen, splintered shelves that circle them. A cashier cowers behind the counter in cowardice.

“Do you want the good news or bad news?” Felicity asks over their communicators.

“Good news,” Hartley says. 

“Well, the good news is I think found a match for the bat DNA these guys carry.”

“And the bad news?” Jesse asks.

“It’s _Desmodus rotundus_ , aka the common American vampire bat.”

“Please tell me they don’t actually suck human blood.”

“Well,” Felicity squeaks, “I could, but I’d be lying. They also carry rabies sometimes, so just try to avoid their mouths in general.”

Instead of focusing on the conversation, Amaya’s mind goes back to her totem. She closes her eyes, summoning the bat spirit, then turns to the manbats. Concentrating, she sends them a message, sending it out as pure sound: _Leave._

Hartley yelps. “What was that?”

“Bats communicate in high frequencies,” Felicity explains over the headset. “Amaya, what are they saying back?”

_We did not come here to be sent away_ , one shrieks. 

“They’re not interested in leaving,” Amaya says, flying forward with her bat spirit, sending one of their foes reeling. Jesse goes for another one, punching it rapid-fire, while Hartley directs a frequency at the last.

_You should help us,_ the manbat screeches at her, trying to claw at her arms _You of all people should understand that we have transcended humankind._ She simply punches it in the face and it stumbles backwards clumsily.

_You have transcended nothing_ , she replies, kicking it in the stomach. _You have taken the power of another being and perverted it for your own ends._ The beast drops to the ground, but Amaya picks it back up, summoning the strength of a gorilla. She slams it against the wall, hissing, her hands around its throat. _You are an abomination._ She tightens her grip, squeezing the breath out of the manbat, until it goes limp, falling to the ground.

Amaya turns to her teammates to see that they’re already staring at her, eyes wide. They’ve both defeated their bats, but both have been left alive, if bruised. She curls her fingers into fists at her sides, not offering a defense or explanation.

“Guys?” Felicity asks over the headsets, quietly. “I accessed the store security cameras . . . uh, is it over?”

“It’s over,” Jesse says. Then she turns to the cashier, who’s still hiding behind his counter. “Sir? It’s okay, the thieves have been taken care of. They’re not going to hurt you or take any more of your things.”

Trembling, the man stands up, running a wrinkled hand through his comb-over. “Th-thanks, I—” He stops, gaping, as his eyes falling on Amaya. He takes his cash drawer out, pushing it across the counter with shaking hands. “D-don’t hurt me. P-p-please. Take whatever you want, just please don’t hurt me.”

“Keep your money,” Amaya says, pushing the drawer back at the cashier, who yelps. “I’m not working for Zoom. Not anymore.” She glances over at Hartley, who’s crouching on the floor, prying open the manbats’ hands. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out what pills they wanted to get their hands on,” he says, inspecting the bottles. He plucks a pen from the counter, making a note on the back of his hand. When he’s done, Amaya walks out the front door, only to see the police. Detective West is heading the unit, dressed in strict uniform with her hair in a severe bun. Her husband trails at his sides, his hands shaking, but not with fear. With excitement.

“This is so cool!” he says, turning to his wife. “I mean, it’s awful that they attacked a pharmacy. But manbats! It’s like something out of _Commander Carl!”_

Iris just smiles, shaking her head at him. Then she turns to look at the team, her face growing stern. “So. The manbats?”

“Two injured, one . . . dead,” Jesse says, her eyes flicking to the ground before going back to look at Detective West. “But, uh, Pied Piper took notes of what they were trying to steal, so I’m sure he’d be more than happy to share that with Barry. Hi Barry!” She waves at the CSI, smiling in an oddly perky way for the current situation.

West raises an eyebrow. “One of you killed someone. On your first mission. That’s going to be fun to explain to the captain. And my commissioner. Oh, and the mayor.”

“Those things weren’t human,” Amaya says, staring the detective down.

“Well, neither is your speedster friend, according to some people. She’s still got rights, same as that . . . ‘manbat’ did.” West lets out a sigh. “Just get out of here before the CCPN arrives. The last thing I need is to explain to the media why Mayor Snart’s team committed murder.”

Amaya flies back to the brownstone, happy to leave the frightened stares of the cops and cashiers behind. She’s home in a matter of minutes. Surprisingly, though, Hartley and Jesse take another ten to get back to the house.

“Did you have to spend an eternity chatting up the CSI?” Hartley mutters as he climbs off Jesse’s back, stretching.

“Barry’s a friend!” she protests. Then she cocks her head. “Well, kind of. He helped rescue me from Zoom, along with . . . some other people.”

“Great,” Mick mutters. “We can trade war stories later. But for now, shower up, maybe get a rabies shot, lunch, and take a nap. You did good.”

“Does that mean no training today?” Hartley asks. Mick lets out a harsh laugh.

“No dice. You can skip training when you take down twelve manbats, not three. But good job. You’re dismissed.” The team files out of the living room one by one (except Harper, who’s presumably sulking in his room like he was when they first left). Amaya’s about to leave, when Mick grabs her by the wrist, yanking her back and onto the couch, next to him. She twists out of his grip, turning to scowl at him.

“You don’t get to leave yet,” he growls. “We need to talk.”


	8. Chapter 8

“What the hell was that out there?” Mick barks. “The mission was to stop those freaks, not kill any of them.”

“Those creatures aren’t like us,” Amaya argues. “They’re a virus, a plague. There’s bound to be more. Killing one sends a message to the rest. That their days are numbered.”

“First of all, you don’t know any of that for certain. Second, you don’t get to call audibles. That’s my job. And third of all, you can’t just go around killing everyone that gets in your way.”

“Really?” Amaya spits out. “Because last time I checked, Central City is still a war zone. It’s barely recovered from Zoom.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Mick fires back, before he can stop himself. “But in case you haven’t noticed, that’s not the side you’re on anymore. This team is supposed to catch criminals, not kill them.”

Amaya glares at him, her brown eyes blazing and teeth practically bared. Her hands are curled into fists. “Really? And you think that’s gonna work.” She lets out a dry laugh. “Creating this team isn’t going to scare Central City’s underworld. It’s only going to unite all of the smart groups and challenge anyone with power. Fighting fair isn’t going to scare anyone away.”

“And killing is going to make the city scared of us,” Mick counters. “Sure, today it’s a batfreak. But if you keep offing people left and right, they’re going to wonder what else you can get away with, how long before you turn on them.” He sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Look, girlie. You know why this initiative was passed?”

“To ensure Mayor Snart gets the metahuman vote in the next election?” Amaya says sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

“No. Because the people of this city need hope. Jay Garrick, for better or worse, gave them that. And since he’s been gone, there’s been a void. Central City needs heroes, not vigilantes.” Mick grabs a newspaper off the coffee table, showing it to Amaya. The headline reads: _Robert Queen Escapes Custody; SCPD in State of Panic._ “That’s the thing about the Hood: everyone is terrified of him, because he shoots anyone who gets in his way. We can’t be like that.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Amaya counters. 

“You know, I don’t get it,” Mick says, reaching out to touch her totem. She swats his hand away, and he pulls it back slowly. “I’d have thought you, of all people, would understand the value of life. All life, human or not, do-gooder or not.”

“What I understand is this isn’t a game,” she hisses.

“I never said it was,” Mick snaps, glaring back at her, wishing they could go a few more rounds in the gym. “And that’s why we have to work as a team, instead of all of you going solo during fights. It was fine today, because you weren’t outnumbered. But sooner or later, all of you are going to need to learn how to work together before you’re outmatched. And, most importantly— you can’t just kill whenever you feel like it. Because if you do, I will personally call Detective West, and tell her to lock you in the deepest, darkest cell Iron Heights has to offer, and melt that necklace down to ash.”

Amaya leans forward, a little too close to Mick. He can feel her breath warm on his neck, and he’s not sure whether she’s about to kiss him or bite him. It sets him on edge, and he’s not sure whether it’d be better to move back or close the distance. Before he can decide, she growls: “I’d like to see you try.” 

Mick just stares her down, unwavering. “Any day, Vix. Any day. But . . . if you end up back in prison, there goes your whole plan. You said you were after redemption. If you still want that, you’re going to have to play by my rules.”

Her eyes narrow, and she pulls back. “For now, Mr. Rory.” Then she saunters out of the room, taking her sweet time to get to the hallway and make it to the stairs. But as her hand touches the rail, she turns back to look at him. “But i’m not making any promises.”

He doesn’t respond, just watches her walk away, eyes lingering a little too long on her leather-clad form as she makes her way upstairs. _She’d be tempting if she wasn’t so damn stubborn and mysterious,_ he thinks, walking to the kitchen to grab a beer. He chugs almost half of it in his first gulp. _Get your head out of the gutter, Mick. That girl’d chew you up and spit you out in a heartbeat._

. . .

_Amaya’s next to him again, leaning too close for comfort. Her breath is warm and heavy, tickling his neck. She smiles mischievously, grabbing his wrists and digging in her nails, practically drawing blood as she pulls Mick forward._

_“Still want to go another round?” she whispers, before yanking him forward and placing her lips over his. He can barely move, but she’s more than happy to make up for that, forcing his mouth open, biting his lips and running her nails up his arms, until they reach his throat, scraping at the hair on the back of his neck, pulling him even closer, so close he’s almost claustrophobic._

_She pulls back, barely winded, while Mick catches his breath. She runs a sharp nail from the top of his forehead to his jaw, circling it under his chin, scratching at the base of his throat. “You’re mine. Got that?” He nods, surging forward to kiss her again, running a hand up her leg. She’s pulling of his jacket now, about to go for his shirt—_

And that’s when Mick wakes up, alone in his bed at night, only one thought in his mind. 

_I’m screwed._


	9. Chapter 9

Mick gets out bed quickly, throwing on the first shirt he can get his hands on, along with a pair of pants, a jacket, and shoes. He grabs his phone, stuffs it in his pants pocket, and quietly slips out of his room and down the stairs. He’s surprised to find a light on in the living room, and wanders in, only to see Felicity wide awake, and on her laptop, per the norm.

“Kid?” he says softly, trying not to startle her. She turns her head in his direction quickly, trying to replace her surprise with her usual bored stare. “You still up?”

“Yeah,” she says, typing away at her keyboard. “I’ve been doing a bit of research.There’s a Dr. Langstrom from Gotham City who’s been trying to cure deafness by splicing bat and human DNA. He’s in town for a biology symposium.”

“Any connection with our flying friends?” Mick asks, raising an eyebrow. Felicity purses her lips.

“Possibly, though there’s no concrete evidence. I think the manbats might’ve been trying to steal drugs he needed for experiments. According to Hartley, they grabbed chemicals such as—”

Mick holds up a hand, stopping her. “In simple terms? It’s been a long day, and I’m not exactly a scientist.”

“They were grabbing antipsychotic drugs that are specifically used to strengthen muscle memory, typically in cases of amnesia or severe head trauma. I think whoever created these creatures needs the drugs to help the patients adjust to their new abilities and learn how to use them on an accelerated timetable. The manbats also grabbed pain medication (presumably for the splicing process), as well as several prescription antipsychotics. I guess most people don’t take well to having their DNA fused with that of a bat.”

“So you think someone, possibly Dr. Langstrom, purposefully created these creatures?” Mick asks. Felicity nods. “Are you sure they weren’t created by the particle accelerator explosion?”

She shakes her head. “I seriously doubt it. I’ve been scanning the internet for any sightings of flying batmen. Even the craziest conspiracy theorists only claim to have seen them over the past few months. If they’d been around for two or three years, I think a lot more people would’ve noticed.”

Mick shrugs. “Fair enough. I’ll keep it in mind, though Detective West won’t be able to check out Langstrom herself unless she gets a warrant. And in order to get that, she needs . . .”

“Evidence,” Felicity murmurs, trying to blow a strand of hair out of her face. “Still worth a look, though. Maybe someone could go undercover at the symposium.”

“Yeah,” Mick says. He lets out a low whistle. “You’re one smart kid, you know that?”

Felicity smirks. “I try. So, why are you up?” Mick scratches the back of his neck.

“Couldn’t sleep. Need to make a phone call. I’ll be on the front porch if you need me.” She nods, still typing away “Oh, and Smoak? Don’t forget to get some sleep.”

“Whatever you say, Uncle Mick,” she mutters.

“You’re not calling me that,” he says, turning towards the door to hide his smile. He steps out into the cold night air, closing the door behind him. Then he opens his phone, speed-dialing Snart. For a few seconds, he hears the phone ring. And then:

“You couldn’t have called in the morning?” Len drawls. Mick lets out a laugh.

“Right. Like you’re not stuck in the office,” he says, sitting down on the steps, the moonlight casting a dim shadow of his form.

“You caught me.” Len sighs. “So, Detective West told me about the team’s little misadventure today.”

It’s Mick’s turn to sigh.“Bad news travels fast, huh?”

“If it’s any consolation, the press don’t know about the dead body. Yet. But they are a little antsy to get a real glimpse of this dream team.”

“Fantastic.”

“So. Which one of your hand-picked team killed the manbat?”

“Vixen. For now, she sitting out the next mission unless there’s an emergency, and I told her if she kills someone on the job again, she’s going straight to Iron Heights.”

Len lets out a chuckle. “Hmm. Did that scare her?”

“Not sure if anything does,” Mick mutters. “Maybe Zoom, when he was still around. I think working for him changed her. She doesn’t see things like you do. To her, there’s an us and a them, and there’s still a war going on. Kill or be killed, practically.”

“It’s survival instinct,” Len says. “And I can’t say I blame her. Honestly, Mick, we could’ve turned out the same. If I hadn’t been made Lisa’s guardian, if I was still a thief and you were still an arsonist . . .”

“You think we’d be like that. Killers.” Mick looks up at the sky, trying to imagine that life. Being on the run, not having people he cared about, pointing a gun at anyone in his way. It’s a little unlikely, but not impossible. “Rory and Snart, criminal masterminds.”

Len snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. It would be _Snart and Rory_.”

Mick can’t help but laugh at that. “What, so you’d be in charge?”

“Aren’t I always?” 

“Okay, Mr. Public Enemy Number One, I get the point. I shouldn’t be so quick to judge.” He pauses. “How’s the new girl doing?” 

“Sara?” Len clears his throat awkwardly. “She’s great. Really great.”

Mick can just see Len blushing, his cold and calm facade crumbling. “Got a thing for her?”

“No,” Len protests. “That would be unprofessional . . . but on an unrelated note, is it crazy to be attracted to someone who could kick your ass?”

“I may not be the best person to answer that question,” Mick mutters, thinking back to his dream about Amaya. “Good luck with that, though.”

“Thanks,” Len says drily. “And . . . thanks, for taking on this project. I mean it. I know it hasn’t been easy, but I think, once it really gets off the ground, this team could actually save Central City.”

“Yeah,” Mick says. “As long as they don’t tear it apart first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the ship name has been chosen via poll. It is Vixenwave. So, that's that.
> 
> Happy 2017. Let's try to make this a good year, so no screwing up the timeline (I'M LOOKING AT YOU, BARRY!). But seriously, I hope you have a great year, and you get more joy out of 2017 than you did 2016.


	10. Chapter 10

“So, I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” Mick says, after sparring. Most of the team is only half-listening. Jesse is wolfing down energy bars, the boys are bandaging their wounds, and Felicity’s recalibrating the cameras.

“What’s the good news?” Amaya asks, sitting against a wall, still winded from her fight against Harper.

“The good news is the team has another mission,” Mick says. “The bad news is, it’s recon-only. So no busting skulls.”

“What if they start it?” Harper asks, taking a long gulp from his water bottle. Amaya can’t help but roll her eyes.

“If they start it, then fine. But no killing.” As he says this, he glances at the entire group, but Amaya knows who he’s really speaking to. She clenches fists at her sides, resisting the urge to glare at him. Provoking Mick, even silently, is only going to make her life harder. For now, she has to follow the program.

“What’s the mission?” Jesse asks, with her mouth still full of granola and protein. Mick smirks at the sight.

“Biology symposium tomorrow night,” he says. “One of the speakers, Langstrom is an expert on bats. He’s also been experimenting with them, which may be related to the monsters you guys fought. Your job is to listen in on his lecture. Ask questions, if you need to. Afterwards, you need to talk to Langstrom. While he’s distracted, someone needs to slip this on his phone.” He removes a small piece of tech from his pocket. It’s a silver circle, no bigger than centimeter around. “It’s a combination bug and tracking device. It’ll allow us to listen into his conversations and follow his movements.”

“Why can’t we just search one of his labs for evidence?” Roy asks.

“If we did that, we’d have to go through the police, and they can’t do it without a warrant, which requires evidence and reasonable suspicion. And if we break in, then we’ll be the ones getting arrested.”

“But,” Felicity adds in, “Dr. Langstrom’s work is funded by government grants. So if we track his movements and find a secret, off-the record lab, we’re allowed to check it out, because he’d be breaking the law himself by having it.”

“Right,” Mick says, pointing at her. “Sorry, kids, but we have to do everything by the book for now.”

“So who’s going?” Jesse asks, putting a jacket on over her tank top.

“You, Pied Piper, and Arsenal. Speaking of which, Harper. . .” Mick turns to him, pointing at his right arm, which is currently in the form of an axe. “You’ll have to wear a regular prosthetic to the symposium. Jesse and Hartley? You’re the eggheads. Take notes on the lecture, watch out for anything that might tie Langstrom to the manbats. While you’re talking to him, Roy will be the one to slip the bug onto his phone. Felicity will monitor everything from here. Any questions?”

“What do you wear to a nerdfest?” Harper mutters. Hartley glares at him.

“It’s business formal,” Jesse explains. “You’ll both need to get suits.” She turns to Mick. “I’ll call my dad and see if he can get us passes for the symposium. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Wait,” Amaya says. “I can see why they’d let you in. But what about Hartley and Roy? They’ve both been arrested.”

“My family did their best to keep it hushed up,” Hartley says. “Even though they disinherited me, they know I can still ruin their reputation by association.”

“And I’m working on a fake ID for Roy,” Felicity says. “Though I doubt anyone at the conference has met him before. Different circles and all that.”

“Any more questions?” Mick asks. The team shakes their heads. “Good. I’d like to repeat that this is only a recon job. So unless it’s necessary, no fighting, no using your powers, no breaking the law, and no blowing your covers. Got that?”

The chosen three nod. “Okay. Shower up.” They all start to go their separate ways, Jesse zooming off to her room, the boys arguing about who gets to shower first, Mick passing Felicity her cane before she walks out slowly. But Amaya stays, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. She’s not done here. Not yet.

“Can I help you with something?” Mick growls, from the doorway, turning back to look at her. 

“I want to go another round,” Amaya says. Instantly, he tenses up. His eyes snap shut, not opening until after he’s take a deep breath. 

“Why?” he asks. Amaya considers the answer. _Because I want to be prepared. Because I don’t like that you could’ve beaten me last time. Because I’m bored and I don’t have anything else to do._

“I want a rematch,” she says with a casual shrug. “That a problem?” The last part his more a challenge than a question.

Mick walks toward her, slowly but surely. “No.” He takes off his jacket, throwing it onto a nearby bench. He’s wearing an undershirt now, stained with grease. Amaya’s not about to admit it, but his arms are . . . definitely worth looking at. For a few seconds, anyway. He walks forward until he’s in the center of the room. “Say when, Vix.”

Amaya walks past Mick, making her way to the wall opposite him. She focuses on her totem, channeling the spirit of a cheetah. She runs toward him. He dodges her at first, but she comes back around, grabbing him from behind in a chokehold. He uses his strength to throw her off of him to the ground. It stings, but she gets up quickly. This time she focuses on a gorilla, aiming for his chin with her right arm. When he ducks, she punches him in the stomach with her left. He reels back from the blow, slamming into the wall with a loud crash. 

But Mick doesn’t fall down. Instead, he uses his hands to brace himself against the wall and straighten up. Amaya tries to kick him this time, but he grabs her leg before she can, using it to send her tumbling to the ground again. Frustrated, she uses her legs to kick his out from underneath him, sending him to the floor as well.

Before he can get up, she’s on him in a flash, pinning him to the ground like last time. This time she grabs his wrists first, making sure there’s no chance of them wandering again. As she leans over him, she sees Mick freeze, not sure what to do. All she can do is smirk, knowing she’s won. She bends her head down so her face is a mere breath away from his.

“Say it,” she whispers, staring him straight in the eye. “Say I won.” He tries to get loose, to roll her over again, but it’s no use. She’s using a strength of a beast again, and he’s outmatched. So instead of trying to get loose, Mick just leans his up . . . and presses his lips to hers.

It’s a move that takes Amaya by surprise, but it doesn’t take her long to respond, biting his lip and pressing open his mouth, capturing his tongue with hers. As they meet, she lets go of his wrists, trailing her fingers up his arms, digging her nails in all the way until they reach his neck. He lets go of her mouth only to kiss her collarbone, gently at first, then fiercely, making his way up the skin of her neck. She cuts him off, recapturing his lips with hers, running a hand through his hair, even as one of his slips up her thigh.

And then something happens. As he moves against her, Mick flips her over, pulling her hands off his neck and pinning her to the ground, just like she did to him. Then he lets go, moving back to smirk at her. 

“I win,” he whispers, moving to stand up. But before he can, Amaya grabs his head again, pulling him back down to her level. She flips him over again, refusing to be beaten, digging nails in so sharp she might just draw blood. Then she leans down, so close she can taste his breath on hers, so close it’d take only tiny move to kiss him again. She runs a finger from his forehead down to his chin, using it to pull him forward, forcing him to look her in the eye.

“Surrender,” she says. “Got it?” He nods slowly, and she stands up, turning her back on him and walking out of the room. Looks like she and Mick have the same unlikely weakness in a fight. 

Each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elsewhere, Felicity disconnects her focus from the cameras in the gym, a smirk growing on her face. 
> 
> "Hey, Harper," she says.
> 
> "What?" a voice on her left growls.
> 
> “Wanna make a bet?”


	11. Chapter 11

Jessie should be in her element. She’s in the scientific community, surrounded by the best and brightest minds—and not just those from Central City, but the entire country. She should be riveted by the groundbreaking theories Dr. Langstrom and his colleagues have to offer.

But instead, her mind drifts, drifts away from her mission and all the way back to “Earth-1”. She can’t help but think about the lives her teammate’s counterparts live in that universe. Nearly all of them had files at S.T.A.R. Labs. She’d skim them when she was bored or wanted to see the differences Earth-1 had to offer. At the time, she’d only recognized a few names from her earth, like Mayor Snart and Mick.

When the rest of her teammates showed up at the brownstone, it’d been like looking in a funhouse mirror of the people she’d only known through profiles and stories. Hartley and Roy were somewhat similar to their counterparts, but there were still jarring differences. Earth-1’s Roy had both of his arms, and had been saved by the Green Arrow instead of “Jay”, and their Hartley had a much more . . . palatable temperament. 

Felicity was an odd case, set apart from her doppelgänger by a large age gap and disability. And Amaya? Well, as far as Jesse knew, there wasn’t a file on her, although there were a few mentions of Earth-1’s Vixen, a hero named Mari McCabe with the same totem, but a different face.

Meeting all these people after hearing about their counterparts was beyond crazy. It was like . . . like reading a plot synopsis for a movie, and then watching it only to discover it was about something entirely different. And it wasn’t like she could tell them about any of it.

She couldn’t tell them about the multiverse, because inter-dimensional travel was what started this whole mess in the first place. She couldn’t tell anyone the truth about Jay Garrick, because even if they believed her, they’d be horrified to learn they’d put their faith in a killer. 

Her dad had expected her to just return to normal life. But how could she? Everyone was saying she was a different person now, and they were right. But she couldn’t tell them why, and she couldn’t go back to the person she was.

And then, one day, her powers had arrived. Maybe they’d always been there since the accident on Earth-1, she wasn’t sure. All she knew is that once she started running, she didn’t want to stop. She almost understood how someone could get addicted to that kind of power, to being able to lap an entire city in five seconds.

It had been the straw that broke the camel’s back, really. Another item on the list of things she couldn’t talk to anyone about, except Wally. And she’d had to leave him behind when she was done training with Barry. 

In other words, Jesse has a _hell_ of a lot on her mind. So that’s why, when Dr. Langstrom’s speech is over, she hasn’t heard a word, and has to ask Hartley for a summary.

“He thinks gene splicing with animals and humans is the key to overcoming disabilities,” he says. “Weren’t you listening?”

“Hey, at least she was awake,” Roy interjects, leaning back on the chair in front of him. “I dozed off a couple of times.” 

Hartley lets out a sigh, pointing towards Langstrom, a lanky brown-haired figure in a lab coat, who’s making his way out of the auditorium, thronged by a crowd of admirers. “Come on. We have to get to Langstrom.” As they push their way through rows of chairs and crowds of scientists, he adds: “I can’t believe so many people are buying this.”

“What do you mean?” Jesse asks.

“His theory. He’s expecting people to believe that they can pick and choose the traits they want from the animal kingdom, but it’s not that simple. You can’t just take one part of an animal’s DNA and not expect side effects. It’s like . . . like Roy.”

“What?” Roy says, stuffing a cheese-covered cracker from the hors d’oeuvre table into his mouth as they walk out the exit.

“Your arm,” Hartley says, pointing the prosthetic Roy’s wearing for the occasion. “See, certain animals have the ability to regrow limbs, such as starfish and lizards. But even if their abilities worked on a human scale, their DNA wouldn’t just naturally fuse with yours. There’d be consequences.”

“What, would I start growing scales?” Roy scoffs.

“Judging by those manbats, I’d say it’s not impossible,” Jesse murmurs. “And don’t forget, some of the medicines they tried to steal were antipsychotics. I bet there are mental repercussions too.”

“Stop the chitchat,” Roy says, pointing towards a drinks table. “There’s the doc.”

Sure enough, Langstrom is leaning against the white cloth-covered table, simpering and boasting to his fans, a glass of cucumber water in his hand. 

“‘Scuse me, pardon me, out of the way,” Roy mutters, pushing people out of their path to Langstrom. There are exclamations and protests, but they ignore all of it, making their way to the front of the crowd like—well, like they’re on a mission.

“Can I help you?” Dr. Langstrom says condescendingly, staring at the three of them with obvious distaste. 

“Jesse Wells,” Jesse says, sticking her hand out and smiling daggers. The man immediately changes his expression, plastering on a smile.

“Of course,” he says, shaking her hand eagerly. “The heir to S.T.A.R. Labs. And who are your friends?”

“This is Hal Jordan . . .” Roy twitches at the name, his original reaction to it was _What kind of dick name is Hal?_ “And Hartley Rathaway.”

“Did you say Rathaway?” another scientist asks, raising an eyebrow. He lets out a laugh. “Hmm. A Wells and a Rathaway. Together. Is there a merger in the works?”

Jesse’s pretty sure the he’s not just talking about business, and Hartley glares at the man. “She’s not my type,” he says coldly, a fist clenched at his side.

“Dr. Langstrom, that was a wonderful presentation,” Jesse says, changing the subject. She glances at Roy, trying to send a silent message. _Calm down. We don’t want to piss anyone off._ “But I had a few questions.”

She barely even listens to what she’s saying, just repeats the concerns Hartley voiced (making sure to leave the manbats out of it). As she does so, Roy slips behind Langstrom, trying to find a way to grab his phone without anyone noticing. He fidgets, stretching his arm out and then pulling it back at the last second.

So, instead of letting him fumble, Jesse makes her move. She rushes forward, grabbing the bug from Roy and planting it on Langstrom’s phone while the man is frozen mid-sentence. A second later, he’s blinking, confused. 

“Did you feel a breeze?” he asks. The trio shakes their head, feigning confusion. Jesse looks at her watch.

“Is that the time already? We’d better be going,” she says. “We don’t want to be late for the next address. It was a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Langstrom.”

“The same to you,” he says, as they walk away. But when Jesse looks back, he’s still staring at them. She turns her head back, shaking her worry off as she pushes through the crowd. _Let it go, Jesse. You did it. You’re home-free._

Almost. They’re a foot away from the door when around them, someone who must’ve met Hartley somewhere else before, lets a word slip. _Faggot._ All it takes is that one little word, and all of the sudden, Hartley’s snarling and punching a man in the face. The stranger falls to the floor, a glass shattering in his hand. Roy pulls Hartley back, but he wrestles out of his grip, slamming his foot down on the man’s chest. He sputters, coughing, but Hartley just stares down at him grimly.

“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” Hartley growls, digging in his heel. After a few seconds, he pulls his leg up, and moves to walk away. But the man he attacked isn’t far behind, standing up only to yank Hartley around and punch him in the jaw. Roy retaliates, socking the guy in the stomach. A friend of his joins the fray, and before she knows it, Jesse’s pulled in, blocking hits from total strangers and kicking them back, treating her high heels like weapons instead of footwear.

Five minutes later, they’ve been forcibly removed from the premises, and warned never to return. Jesse sighs, tossing her ruined heels into a nearby garbage can on her way to the car.

“Look on the bright side,” Harper says, wiping a hand against his dress shirt, which is now untucked, torn, and splattered with dark stains. “At least we didn’t blow our covers.”

Jesse just stares at him. “You seriously think Langstrom might’ve missed the three nut jobs that started a brawl in a science symposium?”

“Well, at least we didn’t use our powers,” Harper qualifies. “And technically, Pied Piper was the one who started it.”

“Oh, right, like you weren’t dying to punch someone,” Hartley mutters, glaring at him through broken glasses. As they approach the car, Jesse glimpses their reflections in its windows.

The boys’ dress shirts are ripped at the sleeves, missing buttons, and marked with blood. Their pants aren’t much better, and their ties sit loose around their shoulders. Her dress, once a plain, pale blue, is marked with stains and her sash has been almost completely ripped off, hanging loose at her side. All three of them have birds nests for hair, all tangled and askew. 

Jesse can’t help it, she has to let out a laugh at the sight. “We look like extras in a teen horror movie.”

“Excuse me,” Roy says, with mock superiority. “I would be the lead.”

“Oh, right,” Hartley says, joining in. “The dumb jock that somehow makes it three fourths of the way through the movie before getting bitten by a zombie on the way to his girlfriend’s house.”

Jesse smiles as she steps into the car, sitting in shotgun position. “I’m actually hungry, come to think of it. Not for brains, though.”

The boys agree, and they end up stopping at Big Belly Burger. The drive-thru’s busy, though, so the three of them just walk right in, claiming to have come from a costume party. The cashier stares, but takes their order anyway. 

And that’s how the night ends, with the three of them sitting in a corner booth, behind a mountain of fast food, just laughing. 

Laughing like a bunch of idiots who don’t give a damn who’s watching them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a Legends fic without a brawl, even though there's no bar.


	12. Chapter 12

Honestly, Mick doesn’t know whether to congratulate the trio or ground them. They did get the job done, but they also caused a major disturbance, which couldn’t have gone unnoticed by Langstrom. Of course, when he asks who started it, they all say, in unison: “It was me”, before turning to look at each other in surprise. At least they’re bonding, in a weird kind of way.

The three of them also swear up and down that the fight was provoked, and when they explain how it started, Mick can hardly punish them for retaliating. He decides to focus on a different problem.

“You’re going to need a way to cover up your secret identities when you’re out fighting crime,” he tells Roy and Harper, when the team’s eating dinner the day after the symposium. Tonight’s special is vegetarian lasagna (Felicity’s pick).

“What about the girls?” Roy asks with his mouth full of pasta, pointing at Jesse with his fork. He’s back in one of his baggy red hoodies and happy to be so.

“Jesse’s already got a mask, everyone already knows who Vix is, and Felicity’s not going out in the field,” Mick says, taking a swig of his milk

“So what you’re saying is, we need costumes,” Hartley says, rolling his eyes. “And who, exactly, is going to make them?”

“I have a friend who specializes in custom-made outfits for this sort of thing. Friction-proof, bullet proof, utility-belt equipped, you name it. All you have to do is give him an idea of what you want and go to a fitting, and he’ll whip it up in no time.”

“Is he any good?” Jesse asks, before shoveling down another plateful of lasagna. 

“Well . . .” Mick says, pausing for effect, “rumor has it, he was forced to make Zoom’s suit.”

“No way,” Hartley says, narrowing his eyes. “You expect us to believe Zoom had a personal tailor?”

“Well, he doesn’t really strike me as the sewing type,” Felicity says. “And I doubt you can get that kind of suit at a department store.”

“Hey, Amaya?” Roy asks, glancing over at his teammate. Or, at least, glancing at the newspaper blocking her face. “Quick question, just wondering: did Zoom know how to sew?”

The second he asks the question, a few things happen at once. Roy starts to take a sip of his soda, but Jesse kicks him under the table, making him spill the sticky liquid all over the front of his shirt. Surprised, he accidentally fires an arrow from the crossbow attached to his right arm, which in turn breaks the lamp hanging over the dinner table, sending down shards of glass onto everyone’s plates. And then, finally, Amaya looks up from her newspaper.

“I never asked,” she says simply, folding up the front page and placing it on the table. Then she walks out of the kitchen, seemingly unaffected by the chaos left behind her. 

Mick glances at her, then glances mess on at the table. “You two clean it up,” he tells Roy and Jesse as he gets out of his seat. Roy frowns, glancing over at Felicity, who has a knowing smirk on her face, but nods.

He meets Amaya on the stairs, as she makes her way up to the third floor.

“Can I help you?” she asks drily, rolling her eyes. 

Mick stares back at the ground, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t upset back there, when Roy mentioned Zoom.”

She lets out a sigh, sitting down on the top step of the stairs. Mick decides to join her, scooting to the left a little so there’s room for both of them.

“His question wasn’t what bothered me,” Amaya says softly, staring straight ahead at the wall, as if she’s talking to it instead of Mick. “I just . . . I want to erase everything I did for Zoom. But I can’t. And every time someone brings him up, I’m reminded of it, reminded of every terrible thing I did out of fear, every person I killed for him, every person I could’ve saved and didn’t.”

“Sorry,” he whispers, feeling a twinge of guilt for his words to her the other day.

_“Because last time I checked, Central City is still a war zone. It’s barely recovered from Zoom.”_

_“You would know, wouldn’t you?”_

“Don’t be,” she says, her tone laced with bitterness. “I’m the one who did all of those things. Makes sense that I’m paying for it now.”

“Look,” Mick starts, scratching the back of his head thoughtfully, “I’m not an expert on feelings or whatever, but . . . guilt isn’t the way to make up for the things Zoom made you do. You said this team was your chance at redemption. Maybe you should focus more on that than on blaming yourself for things you can’t change.”

Amaya turns, giving him a small smile. “Not bad advice,” she murmurs, leaning her head against his shoulder. Mick freezes at the touch, not sure what’s going on.

Kissing Amaya in the gym . . . okay, that had been good. Great, actually. Undeniably great. But it had been to win the fight, at first. And he’d still lost. And what’s more than that, he wasn’t sure what any of it meant. She hadn’t exactly been shy about her response, and to be honest, the whole thing had set him on edge. 

Because he hadn’t been in control, not really. And if something happens again, he’s not sure he’ll be strong enough to say no. The problem is he barely knows Amaya or what she wants. He wants to believe her when she says she’s trying to be a better person, but he can’t exactly see into her soul. He doesn’t know if she means any of it, or if . . . if he’s just falling into a trap.

“I—I’m going to go get some more lasagna,” he mutters, standing up. He walks down the stairs quickly, not looking back at her. The truth is, he doesn’t need food. He needs to think. And he can’t do that around Amaya, can’t do that when they’re sitting so close to each other, because it messes with his head, every bit of it—her scent, the taste of her coming back to him, the way she moves, the way it feels to be wrapped up in her.

Five seconds with her, and he’s a kid again, staring at a lighter, watching its vibrant colors dance before his eyes, wanting to capture that beauty forever, not realizing it’s out of control until he’s breathing in smoke instead of oxygen.

One wrong move, and everything goes up in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is why we can't have nice things, Roy.


	13. Chapter 13

_One second, Amaya’s in bed, sleeping peacefully. The next, she’s on the rooftop, black claws wrapped around her throat. Zoom stares back at her, blue electricity sparking off his body in waves. At first, all he does is stare, looking at her with lifeless black eyes, cold and empty of any emotion._

_“You have failed me,” he hisses. She tries to respond, but he just clutches at her throat tighter, practically drawing blood. “Did you doubt that I would return to finish what I started?”_

_He walks forward to the edge as Amaya struggles in his grip. And then he drops her, leaving her to plummet to the ground. But before she can collide with the cold concrete, he runs to catch her, grabbing her throat and shoving her skull against the brick wall._

_“You are mine,” he snarls, wrapping both hands around her throat. He almost chokes her, but pulls back, only letting her taste the edge of death instead of surrendering her to it. Still, she gasps for breath, tears of pain rolling down her face uncontrollably. “I control your life.You are mind to command, and mine to control.”_

_Amaya lets out a hoarse laugh. “How?” she rasps, staring back at him, her face damp and pale. “How are you going to control me this time? What do I have left to lose?”_

_Zoom lets out a low laugh, sending a shiver down her spine. “Everything,” he whispers, stabbing her in the gut with one of his razor sharp claws. As he removes his hand, he wipes it across Amaya’s face, smearing her skin with her own blood. “Your new life . . . your new team.”_

_He lets out another laugh, amused at his own words as a dull pain grips Amaya. “Although ‘team’ is such a loose term, isn’t it? When the truth is, they’ve got you on a leash, like the animal you are.”_

_He lets her go, and she falls to the ground, gasping for breath. She searches her throat for her totem, but it’s gone. She kneels at Zoom’s feet, helpless._

_“And who can blame them?” he continues, dropping his voice. “After all, that’s who you are. I’d like to take the credit for it, but I can’t. You know who you are.” He crouches down to meet her at eye level. “You can’t lock up the darkness.”_

Amaya wakes up in a cold sweat, thoughts coursing through her mind all at once. _He’s going to kill me. He’’s going to kill the entire team. We’re all dead. He’s here, he’s back, he’s . . ._ She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. _He’s not here. It was just a dream._ Still, Amaya shoves her covers away and gets out of bed quickly, rushing over to turn on the light. 

There’s no one else in Amaya’s room, besides her, and she can’t help but let out an involuntary sigh of relief. Still, she’s not exactly tired anymore, despite the fact that the clock on her wall reads _3:41._ She throws a robe on over her nightgown and leaves her room, making her way down the stairs (which creak and whine no matter how lightly she treads).

As she walks over to the kitchen, she notices Felicity in the living room, sitting on the couch. She’s still dressed in black jeans and a dark purple sweater instead of pajamas, along with her trademark sunglasses. Her ebony hair is wrapped into a messy bun on top of her head. Her cane leans against her leg, and, as usual, there’s a computer on her lap.

“Do you actually sleep, or do you just plug yourself into a wall at night?” Amaya murmurs, searching the fridge for a snack. 

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Felicity says, smirking. “So. Did you have a bad dream or something?”

“Just couldn’t sleep,” Amaya lies, pulling out a green apple. She tosses it from hand to hand as she walks over to the living room. “Mind if I sit down next to you?”

Felicity shakes her head. “Nope.” Then, in a rare move, she closes her laptop. Amaya takes a seat at her right and takes a bite out of the apple, enjoying its sharp, familiar flavor. “So. What’s up?”

“I don’t know,” Amaya mutters, twirling a strand of her hair absentmindedly. “Any news on Langstrom?”

Felicity frowns. “Too early to say, really. Although, I did come across something interesting when I was looking through Mick’s emails.”

“You can’t see it, but I’m giving you a disapproving glare.”

“Yeah, yeah, granted,” Felicity says, brushing it aside with a wave of her hand. “Anyway. You know how Mayor Snart’s Charity Ball is coming up this Friday?”

“Yes . . . “ Amaya says slowly.

“Well, apparently Snart thinks that’s the right time for Mick to unveil the team. He said in an email we’ll have to make an appearance, in uniform and everything.”

It’s Amaya’s turn to frown. “But you don’t have one.”

Felicity shrugs. “I guess I’ll just have to go as I am, no masks. And if someone wants to go after a twelve year-old blind girl, it’s their funeral. I’ve got the internet on my side. Well, that and you guys.”

“Us?” Amaya asks, softly, Zoom’s words replaying in her mind. “ _Team” is such a loose term, isn’t it?_ “Felicity, you barely know any of us.”

She shrugs again, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Yeah, but you’re not all so bad. Jesse’s a bit . . . energetic, but she cares about saving people. Roy’s a hothead, but he’s loyal. Hartley can be a dick, but he’s smart. Mick acts like he’s a grizzly bear, but I think he’s secretly a teddy bear on the inside.”

Amaya has to laugh at the idea of Mick being compared to a stuffed animal. But then she falters, realizing the list is missing someone. “What about me?” she asks softly, taking another bite of her apple.

Felicity purses her lips for a second, considering the question. “You . . . you’re like an animal. You follow your instincts. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

“You don’t?” Amaya asks, surprised. “Doesn’t it scare you?” _It should_ , she thinks, remembering the cold ruthlessness with which she killed the manbat.

“Not really,” Felicity says. “An animal's first instinct is to look after its pack, isn't it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, that wasn't some freaky speed force vision. It was just a nightmare. The real Hunter Zolomon will NOT be making an appearance in this story, as I despise him.


	14. Chapter 14

If Mick’s friend is a successful tailor, the outside of his shop sure doesn’t show it. One story, dusty old windows, bricks that have turned from red to a dull maroon, and faded green lettering that reads: _A Stitch in Time._

“Do me a favor,” Mick says, as his hand brushes the doorknob. “Don’t tell him I got you suits for the symposium from a department store. I’d never hear the end of it.” 

They nod, and a bell gently chimes as Mick pushes open the front door. As they step inside, Roy’s not quite impressed, and yet . . . and yet it feels like there’s something special about the place. It’s magical, though not in the sense of spells and wizardry. The store has the kind of magic you feel when you walk into a thrift shop and find exactly what you were looking for, or the magic you read about in books, when two people meet and everything just clicks. 

It’s got energy, Roy thinks, as he scans the room, glancing at mannequins that model ancient fashions. One’s featuring an orange skater’s dress, with gold trim and a low neck. Another shows off a yellow and green striped spandex suit, which makes Roy cringe a little. On top of a light brown wooden work table, he can make out various materials; helter-skelter spools of thread, a pair of scissors, pins, fur trim, measuring tape, a sewing machine, a hat here and there. It’s messy, even by his standards, and yet . . .and yet he almost feels like if he moved any of it an inch, everything would be out of place.

“Is there a tailor in this dump?” Hartley mutters. Mick shoots him a glare, pressing a finger to his lips.

“I wouldn’t say that if I was y—”

“FIRST OF ALL,” a voice shouts from a back room, cutting him off, “THIS IS NOT A DUMP!” A gray-haired man steps through the door, his face framed by thick round glasses. He wears a dark blue suit and matching tie, with a light pink button-down shirt underneath. “And tailor? No,” the man says, switching to a more indoor voice (with a hint of an Italian accent), “I’m not just a tailor. I’m a genius.”

“Meet Paul Gambi,” Mick says, gesturing to the man. “Best clotheshorse in Central City.”

“How’d you meet him?” Roy says, eying Mick’s attire (Henley shirt, old suede jacket, jeans, and mud-splattered boots). “No offense, but you don’t see like someone who’s into fashion.”

“Who do you think designed Mayor Snart’s wardrobe?” Gambi asks, folding his arms. “His secretary? Get real.” He turns to look at Mick. “So, what do you need? Finally going to dress like a professional for a change?”

Mick snorts. “Maybe at my funeral.” He gestures to the boys. “This is Hartley and Roy, part of the new initiative. They’re going to need action-ready suits. Bullet-proof kevlar, easy to fight in, the works.”

“Do the words secret identity mean anything to you?” Hartley asks, glaring at him. 

Gambi rolls his eyes. “Relax, kid. I’m not about to rat you out for trying to save the city.” He turns to Roy, grabbing the measuring tape. “I think we’ll start with you first. Hoodie, off.” Roy sighs, but does what he’s told. “Good. Now stand in the center of the room, completely still, arms out.”

As Gambi measures Roy, he scurries back and forth to his table, jotting down notes and asking Roy questions, even as he checks his wingspan, height, and whatnot.

“What color?” he asks first, scribbling on his notepad.

“Red.”

“There’s a shock,” Hartley mutters.

“What type of red?” Gambi asks, looking up. “Like the same red as Garrick’s jacket, or brighter?”

“A little brighter,” Hartley says. “Same material would be nice, though. Did you make his jacket?”

Gambi frowns at the question. “Not exactly. He just had an old army jacket he wanted me to restore and add a lightning insignia to. I tried to convince him not to run around in jeans, but he wouldn’t listen. And tin helmet was all his idea, believe me.” He measures Roy’s shoulders. “Gonna need a mask?”

“Yeah. Something thin, though, like people wear in comic books.”

“That’s called a domino mask. OK. Want anything on your head, like a hat, or . . .”

“No hats,” Roy says quickly, noticing a red cap with a yellow feather in it sitting in a nearby corner. “Definitely not. But a hood would be nice.”

“Moderately dark red suit and boots, domino mask, hood. Got it.” He glances at Roy’s arms again. “Do you want a glove for your left hand?"

Roy shrugs, looking from his left to his right hand. The latter has currently taken the form of a rust-colored arrow. “I guess.”

Hartley goes next. As Gambi starts to measure him, he plainly states what he wants, like he’s been thinking about it forever.

“Black body armor and boots, green belt and a matching baldric for my chest that can hold a 26-inch flute, matching green hood and gloves, and a black domino mask.”

“Why all the green?” Gambi asks. “You don’t want anyone mistaking you for the Hood, ya know.”

Roy laughs. “That’s not going to be a problem, since he’s half a foot shorter, has no beard, and carries around a flute.” Hartley stares daggers at him. “What? Are you gonna tell me I ‘have failed this city’?”

“When do you want these suits finished?” Gambi asks Mick, ignoring Roy as he marks down Hartley’s final measurements.

“This Friday,” Mick says. “In time for the charity ball.”

Gambi just stares at Mick. “This Friday.”

“Yes.”

“You want them battle-proofed, fully functional, and looking amazing, by _Friday_.”

“Hey, if you don’t think you can do it . . .” Mick says innocently. 

“Of course I can do it!” Gambi snaps, smacking his notebook down on the worktable with a clatter. “But I’m charging extra for the rush.” He starts scribbling with a pen again, working out the total, but then stops, looking up at Mick again. “Wait. Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“I thought you said you needed the suits in time for the charity ball,” Gambi argues.

“We do.”

“Well, what are you going to wear?” Gambi says, jabbing at Mick with his finger. “Because it’d definitely not be what you’re wearing now, and I’m not going to let you wear the suit I made for you a year and a half ago.”

Mick rolls his eyes. “I don’t need a new suit.”

“You have an image to uphold, you know,” Gambi says, practically sounding like a nagging mother.

“Why? I don’t need to worry about re-election.”

“Fine,” Gambi replies. “What if there’s a beautiful girl there?” Roy watches Mick bite his lip, freezing at the question. _Was Felicity right about him and Amaya after all?_ he wonders, watchingMick’s eyes dart to the ground.

“What if there is?” he mumbles. “I’ll be fine.”

Gambi shakes his head. “Nope. You’re getting a suit. I’ll send it along with others.”

“I thought you said you barely had time to make the first two orders,” Mick protests.

Gambi waves him off. “I’ll make time. Besides, I’ve still got your measurements from your last visit, and you haven’t put on any weight (or lost any). It’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, Mick,” Roy says innocently, putting on his best shit-eating grin. “Gambi’s right. Wouldn’t want to disappoint any beautiful girls at the ball.”

(He ends up having to ride in the back of the car in silence on the way back to the brownstone, but the look on Mick’s face is totally worth it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background on Paul Gambi: He's a tailor in the comic book universe who makes costumes for the Rogues on Earth-1, and sometimes makes suits for superheroes too. You can read about him at these links:  
> 1.http://gorogues.tumblr.com/tagged/gambi  
> 2.http://dc.wikia.com/wiki/Paul_Gambi_(New_Earth)
> 
> I did consider Ray and Winn for costume-makers, but I'm not too big on Ray's costume-making style, and Winn doesn't seem like he would quite fit into the story. And since E-2 Cisco is dead, I decided to write and E-2 version of Gambi. Hope nobody minds!
> 
> P.S. My username is now Robber_of_atms.


	15. Chapter 15

Amaya slips her jumpsuit on slowly, her heart thumping like the bass line of a hit song. She closes her eyes as she zips it up, and as she slips on the gloves, she takes a deep breath in, before pushing it out, as if she could exhale her nerves along with carbon dioxide. She takes a look in the mirror, and decides to take down her hair for the night, letting ebony curls trail down her shoulders. Anxious, she clasps her totem, sending out a silent prayer. _Please don’t let me screw this up._

Letting out another breath, she walks out of her room, turning off the lights as she goes, and heads down the stairs. As she’s about to pass the second floor, she sees Mick, dressed in a simple but dapper black suit, a necktie hanging loose around his unfolded collar. She stops, watching him struggle to tie it.

“Need any help?” Amaya asks, walking over to him. He nods, looking sheepish.

“I always get the steps mixed up,” he says, letting go of the necktie. She steps forward, taking hold of the silky fabric. As she works the familiar knots, Amaya tries not to think too hard, not to remember how she used to help Rex fix his ties in the morning (he knew how to tie it himself, but he liked having her do it). It’s also a struggle not to lean in and finish what he started in the sparring session. Because it’s not finished, not really. There’s still a challenge lingering in the air, something between them.

“Not gonna strangle me, are ya?” Mick asks with a smile as she tightens the knot, and it’s all she can do knot to yank him towards her and show him exactly what she’s going to do.

“You’re safe,” she says softly, flipping his collar down over the tie, and pulling back. “There. It’s perfect.”

“Thanks,” he says awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “You . . . you like nice too.”

She glances down, feeling self-conscious, despite the fact that the jumpsuit has always made her feel ready to take on anything. “I wear this all the time, Mick.”

He shrugs, looking her up and down. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”

“Thanks,” she says, staring at him for a few seconds, searching his amber eyes for a hint of insincerity, but finding none. Then she walks down the stairs quickly, with him right behind her. “So. Tonight’s the night, huh?”

“Guess so,” he mutters. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this, though.”

“I don’t think any of us are,” she says, as they reach the first floor. Everyone else is already lounging in the living room, in full costume—except for Felicity, who’s wearing a short-sleeved black and green striped dress, black tights, and similarly dark flats, along with her silver necklace and usual sunglasses. Her inky hair hangs loose around her shoulders, and her right hand tightly grips her white cane.

Jesse’s dressed in her usual red and yellow get-up, but her hair is down as well, signaling the shift from fighting to formal. In an odd way, she and Roy almost match, though his suit is a more vibrant red, covered in black buckles and laces. A hood hides his hair, and a thin domino mask covers his face. His left arm is covered by a sleeve and glove, while his right is exposed (and currently in the form of a katana).

Hartley matches Felicity, in his lively green and black get-up. His polished silver flute is strapped to the baldric over his chest, just in case. He wears a hood and mask like Roy, though the hood is green and the mask black. 

“Everybody ready?” Mick asks. They all nod, except Felicity, who raises her hand. “Yeah?”

“What, exactly, do we have to do at this charity ball?” she asks, looking uncomfortable already.

“We’ll have to go backstage first, and then we’ll be announced. Mayor Snart will introduce each of you by codename and give a short speech about how you’re making this city a better place, yada yada yada. When that’s done, we’ll have to stick around for a bit.”

“And do what?” Roy asks, staring at him like he’s crazy. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly built for waltzing.” To emphasize the point, he swings his katana, making everyone around him duck.

“You don’t have to dance, Harper,” Mick says, rolling his eyes. “Just talk to a few people, shake hands, that sort of thing. After an hour or so, we can leave.”

“Great,” Hartley mutters sarcastically. “A whole hour in the limelight. What could go wrong?”

. . .

“It is my pleasure to announce the members of the Justice Society Initiative,” Mayor Snart calls, as the team waits backstage, huddling behind a thin curtain. Amaya squints, struggling to see past the blinding spotlight that pinpoints the mayor. For the most part, the audience seems to be cheering, but she’s not sure if they’re really in it. “As you know, the members of this initiative signed on to help make this city a better place. They were also handpicked to be the defenders of Central City by my former head of security and personal friend, Mick Rory.”

Mick walks onstage, shaking Snart’s hand and plastering on a smile for all the photographers in the audience. After he lets go, the mayor resumes talking. “However, you haven’t yet been introduced to the Justice Society, so here they are.”

“The new crimson comet, Jesse Quick.” Jesse races onstage in a flash of golden lightning. The applause is loud and upbeat, and Amaya’s not surprised. Jesse may still be a new hero, but she reminds them of Jay Garrick, a friendly and familiar face. _Well, it’s better than them associating Jesse with Zoom_ , she muses. 

“And next up, the team’s tech genius, Overwatch.” Felicity walks onstage without anyone’s help, surprisingly (though Amaya has a hunch she’s hooked up to the camera system in the convention center). As the people clap, there are some obvious whispers in the crowd at the decision to enlist a blind girl. Felicity just smirks, not cowed in the least.

“Then there’s the spellbinding Pied Piper.” Hartley enters, not exactly smiling, but at least not looking like he’s about to kill everyone in sight (so that’s a win). There’s polite applause, along with a few snickers at the name.

“Along with the resourceful Arsenal.” As Roy steps on stage, there’s more than a few gasps as his right arm, as the crowd takes in its shape of a katana. He changes it to a crossbow with ease, and there’s even more gasping, along with a few oohs and ahs. It’s a bit too much like a freak show at a circus for Amaya’s taste.

“And last, but not least, the tenacious Vixen!” Amaya steps on stage slowly, making her way to the line that her team has formed. As she walks into the light, there are even more whispers and gasps. An undeniable air of shock hangs over the room as the crowd stares at her, aghast.

Mick claps, though, and so do Snart and the rest of team, so that’s something. Then Mick steps back in line, next to her, and Snart begins his address, and her mind begins to wander. She looks out at the audience, wondering what they must be thinking right now. If they want to have her sent straight to jail, or killed on sight. In a room this big, there’s a good chance of meeting someone who lost a loved one to Zoom, even if she didn’t kill them herself. She can’t ask for mercy, and suspects they’d be loath to give it to her.

As she searches their eyes, something odd happens. One second, her hand is hanging, limp at her side. And then the next, Mick’s holding it in his. Her eyes dart over to look at him, goosebumps dotting her arms under their sleeves. He stares back at her intently. _It’s okay. I’m here._ Her fingers lace in with his, and there’s an undeniable surge of pleasure at even that simple act.

When the speech is over and everyone’s done applauding Mayor Snart, the team steps off the stage one by one, though Amaya’s still holding Mick’s hand as they exit, something that’s not lost on Snart, who’s smirking at the sight—that is, until a petite woman with golden hair clothed in a tight midnight blue dress (which matches his tie) walks over to him, and his cheeks turn redder than Roy’s suit.

“So you’re my predecessor,” she says, nodding at Mick with a smile as the rest of the team goes their separate ways. “Leonard talks about you a lot.”

“I take it you’re Sara Lance,” Mick replies, letting go of Amaya’s hand in order to shake Sara’s. “Boss mentioned you too.”

“All good things, I hope,” she laughs. Snart, who’s standing behind her, glares at Mick, practically shouting: _Say one more word and you’re dead to me._ Before he can, though, a slow tune drifts through the speakers, and Sara asks: “You wanna dance, Leonard?”

“Well, I—sure,” he stammers, still blushing like crazy. “See you later, Mick.” And then he walks off, Sara practically dragging him onto the dance floor. 

“A speechless politician,” Amaya says with a smirk. “That’s a new one.” She pauses, watching them glide across the floor. “Not such a bad idea, though.”

“What?” Mick asks obliviously. 

“Dancing,” she says, with a small smile. It’s Mick’s turn to blush. She grabs his hand gently. “Come on. You don’t want to make small talk, and I don’t want to mingle with people who hate me . . .”

“Okay,” he says softly, and she leads him to the dance floor. As she clasps his hands, he adds: “They don’t all hate you, you know.”

“They should,” she says, leaning in close. “I deserve it.”

“What did I tell you about talking like that?” he whispers, spinning her.

“Come on, Mick,” she says with a dry laugh as she falls back into his arms. “When these people look at me, they don’t see a hero. All they see is another one of Zoom’s lackeys. Someone not worth saving.”

“Then prove them wrong,” he urges her, twisting her around tilting her chin up so that she has to meet his eyes. She leans in, resting her head on Mick’s chest as he leads her around the floor. When she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine they’re somewhere else, somewhere away from all the politicians and the press. Somewhere where it’s just the two of them alone. She nuzzles in close, feeling his warmth. “Looking for a repeat performance, Vix?”

It takes her a second to realize what he’s talking about. “Well, it was quite the show,” she murmurs, pulling back to look up at him. For a second, it seems like he’s about to lean in and kiss her again, but suddenly, a shriek pierces the air, and he pulls back.

Mick lets go of her, following the sound to its source. In the center of the dance floor lies Sara Lance, a silver sai buried in her leg, blood gushing out and staining her dress. Snart’s kneeling at her side, paler than he’s ever been.

“Quick!” he shouts, and it’s both a name and a plea. “Jesse, you have to get her to a hospital. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some "quick" AU Headcanons:  
> 1\. Mick doesn’t have a favorite at all. (It’s Felicity, it’s definitely Felicity).  
> 2\. Sara has the superpower to turn Snart into a gibbering mess at all times.  
> 3\. Whenever Jesse needs someone to talk to, she calls up Earth-2 Barry. It’s not quite the same, but he’s nice and they get along well (and both watch Commander Carl). There’s also not the pressure of a mentor relationship.  
> 4\. Amaya has family that fought in the War of the Americas (but she was too young to do it herself).  
> 5\. Gambi was forced to design Zoom’s suit. He spread the rumor about it afterwards, despite his own terror (business is business, and he’s not going to let someone else take credit for his work).  
> 6\. He also ended up making costumes for the other E-2 rogues. Killer Frost was the most difficult to work with. Black Siren’s design was the most fun to create.  
> 7\. Mostly, everyone in the house is like a big, awkward family (except Amaya and Mick, who I ship, obviously).


	16. Chapter 16

“Okay,” Mayor Snart says slowly, his voice tinged with frustration and exhaustion. “Let’s go over all the facts.”

He’s currently pacing back and forth in the living room of the brownstone, addressing the entire team, including Mick. Sara is at the nearest hospital, stable, asleep and watched over by a police detail.

“There were no signs of a break-in,” Roy says, for what must be the tenth time in a single night. “No picked or broken locks, no air vents big enough to crawl around in, no open windows. And there was a guy at the front of the party checking a list to make sure no one tried to crash it. A search of his person didn’t yield any extra money or evidence of bribery—”

“And government records indicate that he’s been a loyal employee for over twenty years,” Felicity adds. “It’s unlikely he aided and abetted the attacker. Also, I’ve reviewed the security camera footage over and over, and all it shows is an ordinary ball, up until Sara was hurt. There’s not even any sign of a loop.”

“So what about the blind spots?” Snart asks, quickly adding: “If you’ll pardon the expression.”

“According to my calculations, there’s only one blind spot in the main ballroom,” Hartley says, spreading out a map of the center on the coffee table. He circles the spot with a pencil, marking an X over it, just to be absolutely clear. “One on the northeast corner, there’s a window, about fifteen or twenty feet in the air that the camera doesn’t have a view of.”

“The window was nearly closed, only open about two inches to allow a slight breeze,” Amaya adds. 

“How’d you know that?” Snart asks, stopping his pacing to turn and look at her. 

“I used a spider’s ability to scale the wall,” she explains. 

“And after I took Sara to the hospital, I scanned the area around and outside the building,” Jesse adds. “There’s only one other building of significant height nearby; all others would have been too short to aim the weapon from.”

“The building in question used to belong to Queen Consolidated,” Felicity adds, “but after their CEO seemingly died, came back, and started moonlighting as a vigilante, their business went downhill. Most of their facilities, including this one, was bought out by Merlyn Global Group.”

“Economics aside?” Snart asks.

“There’s a balcony that overlooks the open window in the convention center. But even if someone was on that balcony, with the right telescope lens, the chances of them locating their target, and managing to launch their sai with enough force and the right trajectory to enter the window and hit the mark . . . well, the odds of that happening are pretty low.”

“But it’s still the only explanation we’ve got,” Snart surmises. Felicity nods.

“Yes. And I think . . .” She swallows nervously. “I think if someone was good enough to do all that, then they probably were also good enough to hit their intended mark, meaning . . .”

“They weren’t trying to hurt me,” he says softly. “They meant to kill Sara.”

“Not kill,” Roy interjects. “The sai was thrown into her leg, which isn’t a fatal wound. And I don’t think the guy—”

“Or girl,” Amaya corrects.

“Or girl missed. Legs are really hard to hit, no matter what weapon you’re using. It’s unlikely they’d be hit by accident.”

“So you’re saying,” Snart says slowly, “That we’re dealing with an extremely talented person, probably a professional at this sort of thing, who purposefully non-lethally injured my head of security.”

“If you ask me, they were sending a warning,” Mick mutters.

“To me or Sara?” Mick shrugs.

“Dunno yet. All depends on who’s behind this, and if they were hired or did it for their own reasons.”

“Whoever they are, it’s possible they have ties to Merlyn Global,” Felicity says. “There wasn’t any evidence of a break-in there either, so it’s likely they had access to the building.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “So how do we find them? Interrogate every single employee of a fortune 500 company?”

“Even if we had the time to investigate all of Merlyn Global, the police are never going to get the warrant for it without more evidence,” Snart says. 

“So we focus on the other side of this person,” Mick says. “Whoever they are, there’s no question that they’re skilled. Had to have trained for years to pull this sort of thing off.”

“If you ask me, there’s only one explanation,” Amaya says, the wheels in her head starting to turn.

“What’s that?” Snart asks, glancing over at her.

“Have any of you ever heard of the League of Assassins?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, classes start up again tomorrow, so I won't be able to work on this as frequently (school comes first, I'm afraid). Still, expect weekly updates.


	17. Chapter 17

“What's the League of Assassins?” Felicity asks, frowning. “And please, don't say it's a league made up of assassins.”

“It’s just an urban legend,” Roy says, rolling his eyes. “Supposedly there’s some ‘ancient sect of assassins’ that just kill people and disappear.”

“Like ninjas?” Mick asks, looking intrigued. 

Amaya starts, “First of all, they’re not ninjas—”

“Actually, according to Webster,” Felicity interrupts, “ninjas are people trained in martial arts for the purpose of espionage and assassination.”

“So they are ninjas!” Mick says triumphantly.

Amaya sighs. “Fine. My point is, they’re not just a myth. The League of Assassins is real organization. Initiates go through years of training in combat and martial arts while assuming new identities. I’ve seen them at work before, killing invaders who sought to wipe out my village and many others. The League seeks to reform the world and rid it of evil by systematically killing any source of corruption, whether that’s one person or an entire city.”

“Sound a lot like the Undertaking,” Felicity says, spitting the last word out with all the venom of a cobra. 

“Undertaking?” Amaya asks, confused.

“That’s what they called the earthquake in the lower-class district of Starling City,” Roy says softly. “The police discovered that it was the result of some sort of machine that could trigger seismic activity.”

“The Markov Device,” Felicity sneers. “Courtesy of Unidac Industries. The SCPD _still_ don’t know who ordered its creation.”

“We’re getting off subject,” Snart says. He turns to look at Amaya. “Even if this League exists, how would you find them?”

“She doesn’t have to,” Hartley replies. He turns to Amaya. “You can use your totem to get a bloodhound’s sense of smell, right? So all you have to do is follow the trail the attacker left, assassin or not.”

Mick turns to Snart. “Whaddaya think?”

“Sounds like our best lead,” he says, nodding. “Amaya, you’ll need to go the CCPD. Tell West and Allen you need to see the sai, it’s in evidence lockup. If they give you a minute or two with it, would that be enough to get a scent?”

Amaya nods. “I think so.”

“Take Quick with you,” Mick says, looking at Amaya. “Just in case you run into trouble.”

She nods slowly, resisting the urge to ask _Why_. Why would he be concerned about her safety, after what happened with the man-bat? Why does he care? 

_Because you’re one of his soldiers_ , Zoom’s voice whispers in her ear. _Because you’re no good to him dead. And, more importantly, because he doesn’t trust you to get the job done on your own._

“Got it,” she says tersely, turning to Jesse. “Let’s go.”

. . .

They’re gone in a blur of red and yellow before Mick has time to so much as say goodbye.

 

“What about the rest of us?” Roy asks, sprawled out across the ratty, torn up green couch. “Someone almost died. I’m not about to sit around, waiting for the case to be solved. There’s got to be another lead to chase down.”

“I’d be more worried about your image,” Snart mutters. “Every TV news channel in Central City is broadcasting the same story. It’s about how the Mayor’s head of security nearly got killed, right in front of the city’s so-called defenders.”

“All the more reason to solve the case,” Hartley says.

“Wait, did you just agree with me?” Roy asks, bolting upright. He glances around. “Everyone else heard that, right? I mean, I’ve got a good three witnesses.”

“Let Vix and Quick do their jobs and let it go,” Mick says, ignoring Roy’s comment. He turns to Snart. “You should probably get back to the office.”

“Mhhm,” Snart mutters, sounding disinterested. Then: “What type of flowers do you think Sara likes? I want to send her some. God knows it’s the least I could do.”

“You’re asking the wrong,” Mick says. “My advice? Just don’t get her a cactus.”

Snart rolls his eyes. “I’ll see myself out.” He strides down the hall and through the front door, closing it gently behind him. 

Roy waits in silence for about a minute afterward, waiting for the gentle hum of an engine as the mayor drives off, before saying: “Are we really gonna let it go?”

Mick shakes his head. “We’re not. I just couldn’t tell you that when Snart was around. Plausible deniability.”

“So what are we gonna do?” Felicity asks, closing the lid of her laptop and leaning in. 

“Well,” Mick starts, “The whole League of Assassins thing still seems a bit sketchy, so I think we’ll wait on investigating that. And if they actually exist, they don’t sound like the people you want to engage unless absolutely necessary.”

“What about Merlyn Global?” Hartley asks.

Felicity shakes her head. “That’s no good. We don’t have a warrant, remember?”

Mick grins. “We’ve got something better.”

“And what’s that?” Roy says drily. “A team of super-powered losers with bad reputations?”

“No. Well, yes. But no,” Mick says. “See, if a normal person walks into Merlyn Global and demands to see the boss without an appointment, they’ll get thrown out. But you know who won’t?”

“Who?”

“A Rathaway.”

. . .

As Amaya examines the sai, Jesse watches Barry ( _this_ Barry, her earth’s Barry, Barry-2) fill out paperwork, dotting the paper with blue ink. When he notices her staring, he sets down his pen, sighing.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“Sorry,” Jesse says. “It’s just . . . weird, to me, that this is my life now. Tracking down would-be assassins with people who possess magical totems.”

Barry-2 snorts. “Imagine how I feel. There’s a guy on another Earth, who’s exactly like me, except for the fact that he isn’t. He’s a speedster, a superhero.”

“Believe me, superheroes make mistakes, just like everyone else,” Jesse says. “But he got one thing right, at least.”

“What’s that?”

“He and the other Iris are dating now.” Barry-2 makes an weird face, as if trying to picture it.

“That’s nice, I guess. You said she was a reporter, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’d be an interesting double date,” Barry-2 says. “To be honest, sometimes I wonder what his life’s like, how he ended up a superhero, and I ended up . . . me. Just a forensic scientist. Well . . .” He lets out a laugh. “A scientist with the most badass wife anyone could ask for.”

“Believe me, you do not want the other Barry’s life,” Jesse says. “He’s . . . he’s lost a lot of people, and he blames himself for their deaths, all the time. And sometimes he’s right. But it’s not the way to live, and it’s not the kind of person I want to become, superhero or not.”

Barry-2 opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, Amaya cuts into the conversation, tossing the sai back to the scientist. He scrambles to catch it as she turns to Jesse.

“Time to go. I’ve got the trail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like if I knew I had an inter-dimensional counterpart with superpowers, I'd think about it a lot.
> 
> On an unrelated note, go check out A Series of Unfortunate Events on Netflix. It's amazing.


	18. Chapter 18

A block or two away from Gambi’s tailor shop, there’s a small flower store. On the window, the words _Prism Posies_ are written in curling purple font. Leonard Snart catches his a hint of his dismal reflection the glass and sighs at it, before opening the front door to the shop. He stands behind it, at first, as an elderly woman steps out and down the steps. Once she’s gone, he slips in, closing the door softly behind him.

Len’s used to the spotlight, but there are times when he’d prefer to stay out of it. Like right now, for instance, as he takes in the vast assortment of blossoms in the room around him. See, there are generally three types of people in a flower shop: people who are buying flowers for a date, people who are buying them for a funeral, and, occasionally, people who buy them to give to actresses or singers after a good performance.

Len knows the conclusion people will jump to if they see him in a flower shop, picking out a bouquet instead of having Lisa or his secretary do it. They’ll say that the mayor’s in love, that he’s got a special girl. And the press will dig out the pictures of him and Sara at the charity ball, dancing blissfully before the chaos broke.

_She looked like a goddess, sauntering around in deep blue silk. And she knew it, the way she leaned in, asking him to dance. She’d barely given him a second to answer before she pulled him to the dance floor._

_“You’ll have to lead,” he said, softly, placing his hands on her waist. “Two left feet on my part, I’m afraid.”_

_Sara smirked at that, leaning in close. “Why, Mr. Mayor. I’m surprised. Shouldn’t a man of your standing know all the proper etiquette for these kind of events?”_

_“I know the etiquette,” he replied drily, staring into her eyes, those deep blue eyes that matched her dress. Eyes the color of the ocean—hell, eyes he’d been drowning in since the moment they’d met. “Wear a nice suit, give a speech, show up with a beautiful girl, and fish for donations.”_

_“What, so I’m just an accessory?” she pouted, with mock sadness, letting go of one of his hands so she could twirl across the floor._

_“Of course not,” he whispered, as she spun back into his arms with an easy grace. “You’re actually the only person here I want to talk to.”_

_“If all you want to do is talk,” she said, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and pulling him closer with every word, until he could feel her breath on his, “I’m going to be very disappointed.”_

A bell chimes as another customer enters the shop, breaking Len out of his trance. It’s just as well, really. He shouldn’t be thinking about that dance again, shouldn’t be wishing he could go back and let the sensation consume him.

Sara deserves better. She doesn’t deserve the things the press will say about her if people think she’s dating Len. She doesn’t deserve the reputation of a girl who got a job by sleeping with the mayor. She doesn’t deserve any of that, but if Len lets people see how much Sara means to him, it’ll do more harm than good.

Still, it wouldn’t be right to have someone else get the flowers. Too impersonal. Besides, he still isn’t sure what to get her. Carnations are too plain, roses are too over-the-top. Len’s eyes fall upon a bundle of dark brown lilies.

“What are these?” he asks the florist, looking at the unusually somber flowers. 

“Fritillaria camschatcensis,” the man says from behind his counter, in a bored voice. “Also known as chocolate lilies. They mean cursed love.”

“Never mind.” Len turns to point at a bouquet of thin, bright scarlet blossoms. “What about these?

“Spider lilies,” the man replies tiredly. “Lost memory, abandonment, losing someone forever—”

“I’ll pass,” Len says, rolling his eyes. This time, he points at a cluster of bright blue blossoms, small and star-shaped. “What do those mean?”

“Forget-me-nots symbolize true love.”

Len sighs. Look, what are odds of Sara knowing what flowers mean? “I’ll take a few of those.”

“Add in a few of these egret flowers,” the man suggests, plucking out a few white flowers from a nearby pot. The petals are oddly-shaped, and as Len stares at them, he realizes that they look a little bit like birds. 

“What do they mean?” Len says. “‘I hope you’re thinking about birds’?”

“Actually, their meaning according to the Japanese language of flowers is ‘My thoughts will follow you into your dreams’,” the florist replies, as he arranges the flowers into a bouquet.

“Thanks, Mr. . . .”

“Bivolo,” the man replies, as he types up the total in the register. “Roy G. Bivolo.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bivolo,” Snart says, resisting the urge to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. _What a name._ “And, I would appreciate it if you—”

“Don’t go around telling people the mayor’s in love?” Bivolo says. “That’ll be twenty dollars for the bouquet.”

“I’m not in love, this is just for a friend,” Len says, handing over the money.

Bivolo waves him off. “Fine. I won’t tell people you’ve been buying flowers for anyone. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Snart mutters, taking the bouquet and the receipt. “Have a good day, Mr. Bivolo.”

When he makes it to the hospital, Sara’s awake, sitting with a balding man who must be her father. They both turn to look at him, the father with a particularly direct glare.

“Sorry,” he says, resisting the urge to look at the ground. He lays the flowers on Sara’s lap sheepishly. “I know they’re not much, but—“

“They’re perfect,” she says, with a gentle smile, plucking out one of the white blossoms and tucking it behind her ear. In an odd way, it matches her plain, pale hospital gown. “Don’t they remind you of canaries, Dad?”

“Yeah,” he says, off-handedly, before turning to Len. “Look, I thought Central City was safe now that Zoom was gone. What the hell happened?”

“We’re still figuring it out,” Len says, knowing how helpless he must sound, before adding: “We’ve got the CCPD and the Justice Society on the case.”

Sara’s dad lets out a dry laugh. “Oh, right. The costumed crazies. That’s _very_  reassuring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a big plot point, but I felt the need to add in a chapter about Len getting the flowers. Because how could I not?
> 
> Thanks for your patience this week, I know how annoying it can be to wait for new chapters to come out.
> 
> Also: thank you, Japanese flower language.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanakotoba


	19. Chapter 19

The smells coming off the dagger is interesting. There’s the sharp scent of Sara’s blood, of course, but something else latched onto the cold steel. There’s sweat and other oils, mingled with the distinct scent of another person, even if only the smallest bit of skin is left on the handle.

Whoever used the sai smells . . . well, simply put, terrible. There’s an awful stench clinging to the weapon, a mix of garbage, body odor, rotten meat, and just plain _excrement._ Amaya inhales deeply, even as her eyes tear up with pure disgust, before setting off on the trail with Jesse.

They start with Merlyn Global, the scent leading them through the building and out the back door. From there, the path runs down alley ways, taking every dead end and loop downtown Central City has to offer. Whoever they’re dealing with, they were careful to avoid being followed when they left Merlyn Global. And if it weren’t for Amaya’s totem, they would’ve succeeded.

The trail leads them to an old, broken-down motel on the other side of town, called _Central Destination._ After taking quick break to change into civvies, Amaya and Jesse approach the establishment, their noses wrinkling in disgust. Clearly, the stench left on the attacker came from this spot.

The inn itself has filthy gray, rotting walls, which look like they’d collapse if you so much as leaned on them. There are actually cockroaches running away from the place, as if the filthy smell of carrion and spoiled food is too much even for them. Amaya has to stop herself from gagging with every step she takes.

“You should wait out here while I talk to the manager,” Jesse says awkwardly, as her hand wraps around the doorknob. “No offense, but you . . . they might recognize your face, since you don’t have a secret identity . . .”

“And it could endanger yours. Got it,” Amaya finishes, nodding. “Ok. I’ll wait, just make it quick.”

Jesse smirks, in spite of the terrible odor. “Only way I know how.” 

As she steps inside, Amaya walks over to a nearby bench, sitting down on the cold metal. She closes her eyes, as if that will somehow make the scent dissipate. But as she tries to focus, something breaks her out of it. 

Her cellphone buzzes in her pocket, whirring with urgency. She takes it out, glancing at the unknown number with confusion before deciding to answer it. 

“Any luck yet?” a gruff, familiar voice asks. Amaya rolls her eyes.

“How’d you get this number, Mick?” This was _supposed_ to be a secret burner phone. Amaya’d purchased it before joining the Justice Society, with the intention of only giving the number to people she absolutely trusted. Needless to say, her contact list was empty.

“We live under the same roof as a computer sorceress, remember?” _Felicity._ Of course she’d know about the phone. Actually, technology or not, that girl always seemed to know what was going on, despite her physical blindness. It was a bit unnerving. “So, any luck?”

“I think we found a motel the attacker might’ve stayed in,” Amaya answers, turning to glance at the filthy place. “Jesse’s inside now, talking to the manager. How are things on the home front?”

“The other three are teaming up for a side mission to investigate Merlyn Global without the mayor’s consent. Not sure yet if it’s going to be a success or an absolute disaster.”

“With this team, it’s usually a bit of both,” Amaya mutters. “You want me to keep you on the line until Jesse comes out?”

“That’d be nice,” Mick says. There’s an awkward pause. “Look, about the ball—”

Amaya cuts him off. “I know, we should’ve been on guard. No matter how good the attacker was, we should’ve been prepared for that. I—”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” he says, quickly. “Look, none of us knew that was going to happen. And no one’s going to blame you for being distracted. If anything, I should’ve seen what was going on. I used to watch Snart’s back, for God’s sake, and I didn’t notice that someone was aiming for the person right next to him.”

“Still. I shouldn’t have let myself get preoccupied,” she says. _I don’t need your justification_ , she thinks, biting her lips to stop the words from coming out. “It won’t happen again.”

“That . . . that’s disappointing,” Mick says, softly. “It was nice. Dancing with you, I mean.”

For a second, Amaya pulls the phone away from her ear, staring at it. Did Mick Rory just talk about his feelings? _For her?_ That’s new, to say the least. 

“Yeah,” is all she can say in response. 

“Ok . . .” Mick says, his voice trailing off. “Question: what do you think of Snart and Sara?”

Amaya raises an eyebrow, surprised at the sudden change of topic. “What?”

“Together, I mean.”

She shrugs, even though she knows he can’t see it. “I don’t know, I only saw them once. But I think she makes him happy, if a bit flustered. He was definitely terrified at the thought of losing her.”

“Yeah. The thing is, though, he’s technically her boss. And they work together, which makes things complicated.”

“I’d imagine so.”

“But does it have to be?” Mick says. “I mean, if two people work together. Hypothetically. If they work together, and there’s something between them, and they go out, does it have to be complicated?”

“Depends on the people,” she says, not taking the bait. _If you’re going to say it, Mick, say it. Stop pussyfooting._

He lets out a defeated sigh. “Fine, not hypothetical people. Us. If we went out, sometime . . . would that be the worst thing in the world?” 

“The former head of security and a convicted felon,” she states.

“Well, technically, we’re both convicted felons, remember?” he says, making Amaya smile in spite of herself. “And if we went out, people wouldn’t be thinking about that. They’d look right at you, and then at me, and then back at you, and think ‘What the hell is a girl like that doing with him?’”

“Most likely having dinner. Tonight, maybe?” The words pop out before she can take them back, sending a rush of fear and nerves through her system. _What did I just say what did I just say that oh my—_

“Well, that was useless,” Jesse interrupts, walking out of the motel. She glances over at Amaya. “Who are you talking to?”

“One sec, Mick,” Amaya says, her heart still racing. “Jesse’s here. Let me put you on speaker.” She clicks the button quickly, trying to keep her face neutral.

“What’s the word, speedy?” Mick asks, somehow managing to keep his tone calm.

“Their last customer, the only one in an entire month if you can believe it—”

“I believe it,” Amaya mutters, still breathing in the awful stench.

“Their only customer checked out last night,” Jesse finishes. “Girl in her twenties, Caucasian with short brown hair, according to the manager. She was traveling alone, with only a duffle bag. Paid in cash, but gave the name ‘Mia Dearden.’ Felicity can do a background check, but I’m betting it’s a pseudonym. Anyone clever enough to avoid paying with credit or debit isn’t going to be dumb enough to leave a real name.”

“Did the place have cameras?” Mick asks. Jesse shakes her head.

“Nope. The motel is pretty run-down, they couldn’t afford the extra cost.”

“Okay. Vix, what about the rest of the trail?” he pushes. 

“This is where it ends,” Amaya says. “The motel has a pretty volatile scent, and it’s overpowered the person’s individual aroma. Let’s hope the others have better luck with Merlyn.”

“Alright, I’ll fill them in,” Mick says, before pausing. “And, Vix?”

“Yes?” she asks, her voice squeaking in a very embarrassing manner.

“That bad smell didn’t ruin your appetite, did it?” Amaya practically picture the smug grin on his face.

“Not at all,” she says, as Jesse stares at her, bemused. “Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felicity not only knows about Amaya's phone, she has it bugged.
> 
> Mick, who was making the call on the front porch, heard Felicity squee with happiness at the end of his conversation with Amaya, all the way from her bedroom.
> 
> She claims it was just because she was winning an RPG on her laptop. 
> 
> (Also, Hartley is currently researching Merlyn Global and found a picture of Tommy. Cue: "Oh no. He's hot.")


	20. Chapter 20

The Merlyn Global facility is tall and imposing, a mix of dark glass and steel. Hartley and Roy enter the belly of the beast dressed in black suits again (albeit ones with less scrapes and bloodstains than the ones they wore to the symposium).

“What’s the plan again?” Roy asks, watching men and women stride across the lobby, all toting briefcases, folders, and other important-looking materials.

“Hartley scheduled a meeting with the CEO, Tommy Merlyn,” Felicity says, her voice seeping through the comm unit. “He’s going to ask him about who had access to the building after hours the night of the charity ball.”

“How’s he going to do that without looking suspicious?” Roy asks, confused. “I mean, what’s that got do with Hartley Rathaway, as opposed to Pied P—” Hartley elbows him in the ribs before he can finish the thought.

“First of all, don’t say that name so loudly,” Hartley hisses. “But as to your question, remember how I . . . damaged my family’s facility in Gotham?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s not all I did. Before I wrecked the building, I gathered inside information about Rathaway Industries’ more questionable exploits and leaked it online, along with secrets from my family’s business partners. I’ve got a bit of a reputation online when it comes to revealing corporate intel. So, unless Tommy Merlyn wants me to tell everyone on the internet that his business might have a connection to a possible terrorist, he’ll tell me what he wants to know.”

“Blackmail,” Roy says with a nod. “I approve. And my role is . . . ?”

“My loyal bodyguard,” Hartley finishes, as they step into the elevator. “Loyal and silent, if you don’t mind.” 

Roy rolls his eyes at this as the elevator halts with a lurch. “Felicity, why didn’t you come? You could’ve tried to hack into the mainframe or something during our meeting.”

“Not an option,” Felicity says. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have a secret identity. My presence would just shift suspicion onto the two of you. Now cut the chatter before someone wonders what you’re up to.”

The boys obey, as they approach a woman sitting behind a desk made of dark, polished mahogany. The woman is in her twenties, with a neat bun, a sharp glare, and a severe plum pantsuit. Her hand flies across papers, striking the white surface with red ink. As Roy and Hartley step nearer, she sets down the pen with a sigh. 

“Can I help you?” she asks, and it’s clear she wants to do anything but.

“I have a three o’clock with Mr. Merlyn,” Hartley says, matching her dry tone with a demanding sneer. “The name is Rathaway.”

The woman raises an eyebrow and grabs her dark purple planner, flipping through it furiously until she lands on the right date. Her eyes widen as she reads the words, and she quickly jabs the intercom switch. 

“Mr. Merlyn?” she says, still eyeing Roy and Hartley. “Your three o’clock is here.”

“Thanks, Helena. Send him in,” Merlyn replies, his voice drifting calmly out of the speaker. Hartley steps towards the door, Roy behind him, but Helena grabs Roy by the arm, stopping him. 

“You don’t have an appointment, do you?” she says curtly.

“I’m his bodyguard,” Roy says, pointing at Hartley. 

“I’ll be fine,” Hartley says, waving him off. Roy stares back skeptically, but Hartley just taps his ear, as if to say _I’ll use the coms._ Roy shrugs, taking a seat on a nearby bench as Hartley enters Merlyn’s office.

_“So you’re Hartley Rathaway,”_ Roy hears Merlyn say over the coms. He’s laying the charm on thick. _“You’re not here to destroy the building, are you? Because we’re repainting the third floor, so it’s really not the best time.”_

Roy can imagine Hartley rolling his eyes at the statement. _“If I wanted this building to be rubble, I’d wait until everyone had left, so I think you’re safe.”_

Merlyn chuckles. _“Much obliged. So, what brings you to Merlyn Global? From what I last heard, you were on the way to Blackgate.”_

_“The charges were dropped,”_ Hartley retorts. _“Thought I’d go to Central City for a change of scenery.”_

_“Oh, right.”_ Merlyn lets out another laugh. _“Monsters and metas on every street corner. What’s not to love?”_

_“Well, I don’t think metas are the only ones to be worried about. From what I understand, the mayor’s new head of security was nearly a killed a night or so ago. In the building across the street, actually.”_

_“Is that right?”_ Merlyn asks, and Roy’s honestly not sure if he’s playing dumb or it just comes naturally. As Hartley begins to go into detail, Roy’s attention waivers, as a young woman walks down the hallway. She’s dressed in a short-sleeved black dress with a red flower pattern, the silky fabric hugging her curves, and falling short mid-thigh to reveal bare legs, all the way down to black high heels that must be five inches tall at least. Her hair is cut in a sleek brown bob, and she’s wearing soft, white pearls with matching earrings. She smirks, noticing his obvious stare, and walks right on past.

“Is Tommy busy?” she asks Helena. The secretary nods.

“He’s in the middle of a meeting. I’m not sure how long he’ll be.” 

The woman returns the comment with a dazzling smile. “That’s okay. I can wait, there are just some additions to the budget I want to go over.” 

Then she waltzes over to where Roy’s sitting, sliding in next to him. If he was listening to the conversation before, he’s definitely not now.

“Come here often?” she purrs, and somehow, the cheesy line sounds just right coming off her cherry-red lips, and Roy has to blush.

“Uh, no,” he says pointing towards the doors to Merlyn’s office. “I’m just the bodyguard for Rathaway.”

“Mmm,” the girl hums. “Didn’t know one of them decided to grace us with their presence. So, what’s your name, Mr. Armed and Dangerous?”

Roy has to smirk, glancing down at his gloved prosthetic. _If she only knew._ “Hal,” he lies. “Jordan.”

“Thea,” she says, reaching out to shake his hand, “Queen.”

Roy lifts an eyebrow. He’s read the tabloids, and that’s a familiar name. Daughter of Robert Queen and Moira Queen. The former is a vigilante, and the latter was a businesswoman and philanthropist who perished in the Undertaking. Thea, despite being a well-known party girl, took over her mother’s role at Queen Consolidated.

“I’m surprised you decided to work for Merlyn Global, after they practically took over your family’s company,” Roy says, conscious that it’s not the best conversation starter. But Thea, instead of looking offended, just shrugs.

“Could’ve been worse. Tommy was best friends with my brother before . . . the incident.” _That’s one way of putting it,_ Roy thinks. “He’s the closest thing I have to family.” 

“Sorry,” Roy offers, regretting his impulse to pry. 

“It is what it is,” Thea says simply. “So, what brings the great name of Rathaway to Merlyn Global?”

“I couldn’t say,” Roy lies. “Hartley doesn’t really discuss his business with the help.”

“Hartley’s here?” Thea says, a note of interest in her voice. “That’s unexpected.”

Before Roy can reply, Hartley walks out of the office briskly, making his way over to Roy.

“Time to go,” he says curtly, not even glancing at Thea. She, however, winks at Roy.

“See you around, _Hal_ ,” she says, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. Stunned, Roy doesn’t move, at least not until Hartley pulls him by the hand and yanks him off the bench. Roy shakes loose the grip as they walk over to the elevator.

Once they’re inside, he asks: “So. Any news?”

“What, were you _distracted_?” Hartley sneers. “Yes, there’s news.”

“Ok, spill.”

“Well, you know how Malcolm Merlyn died a while ago, about a year after the Undertaking?” Hartley asks.

“Yeah.”

Hartley stares Roy straight in the eye, unblinking. “He was killed by someone with a sai.”


	21. Chapter 21

“Malcolm Merlyn,” Felicity says, reading the file from her computer back at the Brownstone. “Died back in 2013, former CEO of Merlyn Global, recipient of Starling City Municipal Group’s Humanitarian of the Year Award in 2013, father of Tommy Merlyn, widower of the late Rebecca Merlyn, blah blah blah. This guy’s record is spotless. I’m not seeing a motive for his murderer.”

“Believe me,” Hartley says, looking over financial reports from Merlyn Global, “Businessmen are never spotless. There’s got to be something going on with the Merlyns.”

“Well, they did buy out most of Queen Consolidated, including their subsidiary, Unidac Industries . . .”

“Which was responsible for creating the Markov Device,” Hartley points out, scribbling calculations down with a blue pen in his notebook.

“Yeah, but that was before Merlyn Global bought it out.”

“What about the guy’s wife?” Roy says, stretched out on a nearby armchair. “How did she die?”

“She was shot and mugged in front of a clinic in the Glades,” Felicity replies somberly. “A free clinic she actually funded for the needy. It was in plain sight too, but no one helped her.”

“Who mugged her?” Roy asks, frowning.

“According to SCPD records, Danny Brickwell, who was shot back in 2012 . . . with an arrow.”

Roy groans. “What, now the Hood is involved with this?”

Felicity shakes her head. “The arrow in question was black, not green. The SCPD think it was the work of the copycat archer—you know, the one who tried to frame the Hood about four or five years ago.”

“But they never caught him,” Roy mutters. “Which brings us back to square one. To solve an attack, we have to solve a murder, which might have to do with another murder, but we can’t ask the murderer because he’s been—“

“Murdered,” Hartley finishes, rolling his eyes. “And Tommy wasn’t that helpful, either. He just said that even though his father was an asshole, he didn’t know of anyone who’d want to kill him.”

There’s a streak of gold light, and all of the sudden, Jesse’s sitting on the couch. “Any luck?” she asks, a notebook in her hands. All three shake their heads, even Felicity. 

“What about you?” Roy asks. “Any luck finding a hidden meaning in the name ‘Mia Dearden’?”

Jesse scowls, flipping through her notebook. “Nothing. It’s not a cipher and all the anagrams it forms are ridiculous. I even checked the meaning of both words. Mia means ‘beloved’, and Dearden means ‘deer’, or ‘person from Dearden, Lancshire.’ It’s pretty random.”

“I say we take a break from all of this,” Roy says. “We’re not getting anywhere.”

“You’re not even doing anything,” Felicity mutters. 

“Well, that’s because my talents aren’t in the field of research,” he says, gesturing with the blade formed by his right arm. “So I’m overseeing, since Mick’s not here.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Jesse asks, peering around as if he might pop out at any moment. “I’m surprised he left us on our own.”

Felicity smirks. “Well, on a related note, Harper owes me twenty bucks.”

. . .

When you’re driving from Central City to Keystone, there’s a point where the city ends and the Mississippi River begins, sparkling blue and rippling past you. A striking red bridge arches over the water, making a path for cars to pass over it. And on the bridge itself, on either side of the road, there are pathways for people to walk across, whenever they want. 

Amaya’s making her way on one now, one hand gliding over the steel railing, the other holding Mick, their fingers laced together. In his other hand is a wooden picnic basket, with a red and white checkered cloth and everything, like they just stepped out of a picture book. He’s wearing the same getup as usual, his old jacket paired with a henley and jeans (to be fair, the clothes are unstained). She’s dressed in a robin’s-egg-blue dress with long sleeves and short skirt (plus matching flats). Her curls hang loose at her shoulders, and the totem is around her neck, as always.

Amaya’s moving forward slowly, taking in the way the pale moonlight glows and bounces off the river, the way the city is lit up like a postcard. She’s seen the bridge several times, but never by night. As she peers over the edge of the railing, she realizes that Mick’s not staring at the view, but at her.

“This is nice,” she says, breaking the silence and giving him a smile. She pulls him over to a bench, and they sit down. “So, what’s for dinner?”

“Hope you weren’t looking forward to anything gourmet,” Mick mutters, opening up the basket. “I got sandwiches, some fruit, chips, and some girl scout cookies I found in Roy’s stuff.” He tosses the blanket over to Amaya, and she catches it easily before setting it across her lap.

“You forgot to mention the beer,” she says, spotting a pair of brown bottles nestled in the food. Mick shakes her head.

“That’s ‘cause it’s cream soda,” he says, passing her one. “What, did ya think I was going to try to get you drunk on the first date?”

Amaya shrugs, twisting off the lid of her soda before taking a sip. She smiles as the snappy vanilla taste meets her tastebuds. “Glad to know you’re a gentlemen.”

“Wouldn’t go that far,” Mick mutters, passing her a bag with a sandwich stuffed inside. It’s on toasted wheat bread, with mayo slathered on each piece. In the middle are thick slices of tomato, crispy, tantalizing strips of bacon, and a few obligatory pieces of green lettuce. She opens the bag before taking a bite.

The actual dinner part of the date doesn’t last long, because they’re both pretty hungry and finish most of the food in a few minutes, including the remains of Roy’s peanut butter patties. When they’re done, Mick dumps the trash in a nearby garbage can and stuffs the picnic blanket back in the basket before setting back down next to Amaya. She rests her head on his shoulder, and his left arm loops around her waist, pulling her closer.

“What did you think first when you met me?” she murmurs, leaning into his touch.

“To be honest, I was disappointed that you weren’t the pizza guy,” he says with a grin.

Amaya rolls her eyes. “Ha ha. But honestly?”

“Wasn’t sure,” he admits. “I thought you were dangerous. Still kinda think that. But I’m glad we’re on the same side.”

“Why, because you think you’d lose if we weren’t?” she says softly.

“No,” he says. “I mean, yeah. But I . . . I like you, Vix. Don’t know why, exactly, but I do. And I think you’ve got my back.”

She pulls back for a second to stare him down. “How are you so sure of that?” 

His right hand stretches out to cup her face, calloused fingers gently caressing her skin. “Because you’re a hero.” 

Then he leans forward, kissing her. It starts out gentle, his lips brushing against hers, but then Amaya’s pulling him even closer, grabbing him fiercely by the jacket. She presses into his touch, forcing his mouth open, demanding more. Their tongues meet with a aftertaste of vanilla and peanut butter as his right hand slips down to her waist, and all she can think is _more._ Her lips move down, kissing him on the neck at first, and then nipping at him. He leans down, recapturing her lips furiously

And that, oh-so-predictably, is when Mick’s phone goes off, beeping insistently. They break apart, panting, as he looks at the screen.

“It’s Smoak,” he says, still holding the phone out as if he doesn’t know what do with it.

“You should answer,” Amaya says reluctantly. “Better make sure they haven’t blown up the kitchen or something.”

Mick nods, taking the call. “Hey, Smoak. What is it?” He listens for a second. “You’re kidding.” Another pause. “Seriously? You think it’s related?” A beat. “Okay, we’ll head back. Thanks, Smoak.” He hangs up before turning to Amaya. “Guess who works for Merlyn Global’s R & D division?”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “I give up. Who?”

“Dr. Kirk Langstrom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY MUST THE WRITERS SINK ALL MY SHIPS????


	22. Chapter 22

“We weren’t really getting anywhere with the Merlyn lead,” Felicity explains, once Mick and Amaya are back at the brownstone. The team is wise enough not to make any comments about Amaya’s dress, or Mick’s picnic basket, but they’re still staring. “So I thought I’d take a break and check out Langstrom’s movements, since we never figured out what was going on there. And besides his government-issued-and-approved lab and his apartment, there was another address that kept getting pinged, 39 Kane Avenue. I did some research, and it turns out that’s another Merlyn Global facility. So I did some digging, and by that I mean hacking, and I found out that Langstrom is on their payroll.”

“You think the two cases are related?” Amaya asks, frowning.

“We can’t be sure,” Hartley says, pacing the living room. “But if Merlyn Global is involved with the man-bats, that’s definitely grounds for investigation—at least, if we can find proof that Langstrom made them in the first place.”

“And what would Merlyn Global want with batmen?” Roy asks. “I mean, why hire him?”

“Well, I don’t have a ‘why’ yet, but I do have a who,” Felicity says with a smirk.

“What do you mean?” Roy says.

“He was hired by one Thea Queen,” she says. “Looks like your girlfriend has been busy.”

“Girlfriend?” Jesse asks with a laugh.

“Not my girlfriend,” Roy responds automatically. “We just met when Hartley was in his meeting.”

Hartley snorts. “Please. You do realize I could hear you flirting over the comms, right?”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Amaya points out. “It could give us a way in.”

“What are you suggesting?” Mick asks. 

She shrugs.“Roy asks Thea out. They go to a restaurant. While they’re there, Jesse goes in quick and steals her ID, then searches her office. When she’s done, all she has to do is return the ID to Thea’s purse, and nobody’s the wiser.”

“That’s assuming she _wants_ to go out with him,” Mick mutters.

“And doesn’t eat him alive,” Hartley adds. 

. . .

The next morning, Thea Queen goes to work like usual, a briefcase in her hand, fiercely bright lipstick painting her mouth, and a sai strapped to her thigh, covered by a soft, dark green dress with long sleeves. 

She takes a sip of her caramel macchiato, pulls out her phone, and skims the latest clickbait someone’s forwarded her— _10 Pictures of The Justice Society Doing Anything But Their Job_. Thea smirks at the gossipy news as she walks into the elevator, her heels gliding soundlessly across the marble floor.

As she waits for the elevator to reach the twelfth floor, Thea’s only half-paying attention the people around her, even as she spouts off the usual niceties— _How was your weekend, Yes, I did hear about Greg’s retirement party, I love your hair,_ etc. That’s what Thea Queen’s been raised to do—make small talk, smile when nobody’s watching, and know everybody’s names. _Thea Merlyn,_ however, she thinks, as she steps off the elevator, has a much different skill set. 

“So,” a giggly brunette from accounting says, walking next to her, “what’s the occasion?”

“I always try to look my best, you know that,” Thea says.

“Not your outfit,” the girl laughs, “although it is gorgeous. I mean your office!”

“What about it?” Thea asks. She’s only had that office for a few days, since she transferred to the Central City headquarters, and it’s still pretty bare. 

“You haven’t seen it yet?” another coworker says, raising her eyebrows. “Just wait.”

Thea decides to walk a little faster at that, wondering if Tommy’s covered her office in sticky notes or something (she wouldn’t put it past him to prank her at work). When she reaches her office, though, there’s no sign of any pranks or mishaps. Everything is in place—except, perhaps, the overflowing bouquet of dahlias spilling over her desk, their scarlet petals bursting with color. 

She reaches for the bundle, and notices a note placed underneath the flowers, scribbled messily on a piece of loose-leaf paper in red pen.

 

_I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that dress of yours. These flowers reminded me of it, and you. Want to meet up?_

_-Hal_

_816-731-9410_

 

Thea smirks, picking a flower from the bunch and twisting it in her fingers as she skims over the message again. It’s not particularly witty or charming, but she’s not too hung up on that, as she she remembers the sturdy muscle packed behind a sharp black suit. She smiles at the memory as she sniffs the blossom.

_So. A date with Arsenal,_ she muses, putting his number into her phone. She’s not going to call right away, of course, she’ll make him wait a few days before calling him up. He’ll be an easy mark, she already knows it. All she has to do is show up and he’ll be hooked. _But, then again,_ she thinks, _just because it’s easy doesn’t mean it won’t be fun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Thea seems OOC, it's because:  
> A. This is the Thea of Earth-2  
> B. I'm really pulling from Young Justice's version of Cheshire.
> 
> Sorry this chapter is short, I hope you like it anyway.


	23. Chapter 23

It’s not hard to pinpoint where the evening goes wrong. It’s not when Roy slips into a suit (courtesy of Gambi) and admires the bright, eye-catching scarlet tie that goes with the ensemble. It’s not when he turns on his communicator or puts on his prosthetic hand. It’s not when Hartley and Jesse argue about whether or not to take a car to Merlyn Global (“I’m prone to motion sickness, okay?” “You just don’t want to ride piggyback again.”) 

It’s not even when Roy meets Thea in front of a private bistro uptown and he has to stop himself from choking on thin air, because she’s in the exact same flower-printed dress as the first time they met and it looks better than ever, paired with scarlet heels, ruby lips, and crimson-colored nails. (If there was ever any doubt that red was Roy’s favorite color, it vanishes in one second.)

No, the night goes south the moment he says hello and Thea responds by stepping forward, pressing herself up against his chest, and kissing him lips. It’s intoxicating, and all it takes for him to open his mouth is the gentle suggestion of her tongue swiping across his lips. And before Roy knows it, he’s gone. The scene fades to black, and he crumples to the ground, catching a hint of laughter in the background.

When Roy wakes up, he’s in an unfamiliar cell lined with red brick. His left hand is chained to the wall, while his right (now free of the prosthetic) is cuffed by a small, glowing blue bracelet. He tries to shift it into a lock pick or something useful, but nothing happens.

“Inhibitor cuffs,” Thea explains from the other side of the bars, leering at him from a dark corner in stereotypical villain fashion. She’s taken the time to change into a black suit of leather and kevlar, the hood removed to show her face. “Made with the same technology they use to restrain metas in Iron Heights.”

Roy smirks. “You know, as romantic as this is, you really should have bought me dinner first.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” she purrs, stepping into the dim lighting cast by one fluorescent bulb. “Besides, you look good enough to eat.”

“Oh, come on!” someone whines from the cell on Roy’s right. He can’t see who it is, but he’s got a pretty good idea from the voice alone. “Enough with the flirting. I would prefer torture, honestly.” 

“Don’t give her any ideas,” another voice says, this one on his left. It’s Jesse. 

“Nice friends of yours,” Thea says, raising an eyebrow. “But no match for mine, I’m afraid.”

“And yours would be . . . ?”

“Ninjas,” Jesse mutters. “Ninjas who attacked us when we tried to break into Merlyn Global.”

“How’d they stop you?” Roy asks. “I mean, with your speed, and Hartley’s magic pipe . . .”

“First of all, it’s not magic, it’s advanced science,” Hartley growls. “And second of all, they stole my pipe before using it to make Jesse give herself up. Then they kicked my ass, knocked us both out with tranquilizers, and here we are. How’d she capture you?”

“Knock-out lipstick,” Thea says with a grin. “Fell for that one, hook, line, and sinker. I have to say, if this is half of Central City’s last line of defense, I’m really not impressed.”

“So what’s your plan?” Roy asks. “Take us out along with the mayor’s head of security before taking over the city?”

Thea rolls her dark green eyes. “You really think we’d go to all this trouble just to conquer one city in the middle of Kansas, of all places?”  


“Who’s we?” Jesse asks. “You and Langstrom? Which one of you is in charge?”

“Neither, actually,” Thea says with a shrug. “I was just in charge of funding and checking up on his work. When he let some of the guinea pigs loose, my . . . superior decided to keep you all occupied with something else.”

“Hence the botched assassination attempt,” Hartley mutters. “So who’s your superior? Merlyn?”

Thea lets out a snort. “Please. Tommy doesn’t have a clue what’s going on.”

“Or that you killed his father?” Roy asks sharply. “Because you’re the girl with the sai, aren’t you?”

Thea shrugs. “Guilty as charged. But I wouldn’t be so quick to mourn his death. Who do you think masterminded the Undertaking?”

“Makes sense,” Hartley says. “Means, motive, opportunity. So what? You killed him to finish what your father started? Complete the Hood’s work?”

Thea glares at him coldly. “Robert Queen is _not_ my father. He’s just a man who lied to me for twelve years, died, came back, and lied to me all over again.”

“Still not grasping the ultimate plan here,” Jesse murmurs. “Why does your boss need an army of man-bats if he’s already got ninjas?”

Thea sighs. “Assassins, not ninjas—”

Hartley scoffs. “Oh, great. The League of Assassins is real. That makes me feel much better—”

“And as long as warriors are humans, they have limits. The League is trying to expand its capabilities, and experimentation is the next step,” Thea explains.

“Why?” Roy asks. “If the same methods have been working for hundreds of years, why change them?”

She stares at him pointedly. “Metahumans. Sometimes training isn’t a match for raw power, no matter how unskilled it may be. And after what happened with Zoom, the Demon’s Head made up her mind.”

“To fight metahumans?” Jesse asks.

“No. To get rid of them for good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to come up with a name for Thea, Roy, and Hartley.
> 
> I've got it: The Trainwreck Trio.
> 
> Oh, and in case it doesn't come up (although it probably will), Thea's league name is Alqut Shishayr.


	24. Chapter 24

“Okay,” Mick says, looking at what’s left at his team. “The hard part of the rescue mission won’t be locating Jesse, Rathaway, and Harper. Vix can track them down using their scent, so that’s not a problem.”

“The problem is, you have no idea what you’re walking into,” Felicity says. “I’ve gone over the security footage from when Jesse and Hartley were taken. If Thea has that many assassins at her command, just imagine how secure her base is. At the very least, you’ll be outnumbered six to one. Even with Amaya’s powers, it’s going to be rough.”

“Is there anyway you can give us an advantage?” Amaya asks, peering over Felicity’s shoulder to look at the computer screen. It’s currently displaying a blueprint of the Merlyn Global facility. 

Felicity shrugs, biting her lip. “Maybe. Once you locate where they’re holding the others, I might be able to get into their system, but I doubt the League of Assassins depends too much on modern technology.”

Mick turns to Amaya. “I might have an idea. There are animals that can see in the dark, right?”

She nods. “Owls have excellent night vision. Why?”

“If Queen’s base has electricity, we could at least find the fuse box and shut off the lights,” he says with a shrug. “That might give us some advantage in a fight, if Amaya uses her powers and I get a pair of night vision goggles.”

“Well, if you used an EMP, you wouldn’t even need to find the fuse box,” Felicity murmurs. “I still feel like you need more backup, though. Can’t you call Detective West and ask for a squad or something?”

Mick snorts, leaning back in his seat. “Sure, if we want the entire CCPD to know we screwed up. Also, where would we get an EMP?”

Felicity smirks. “I know a guy. Come to think of it, he might be able to help us out with more than the EMP.”

“Whaddaya mean?” Mick asks. 

“There’s this guy that specializes in black market sales over the dark web. If you want it, he can find it, or he can make it. Technology, weaponry, anything you want. His handle is Turnabout.”

“Any chance you can arrange a meeting with this guy?” Mick asks. “We don’t have time to wait for a package.”

“Fortunately for you, yes,” Felicity says, typing furiously. “See, I’m not the only one looking for Turnabout. He’s also wanted by the federal government, who have been tracking both his online and in-person sales. They haven’t gotten an ID yet, he always manages to get away, but it looks like Turnabout is in Keystone right now. According to this decrypted file, he’s got an appointment with at the Santinis’ casino.”

Mick turns to Vix with a grin. “Ready to have some fun?”

“Always.”

. . .

 

“For the record, infiltrating a crime family’s casino to find a black market weapons dealer _does_ not count as a second date,” Amaya whispers to Mick, as they step through the doors of _The Lockbox._ She’s decked out in a silky scarlet dress that with a low v-neck and a skirt cut well above the knee, along with matching heels.

He shrugs, dressed in his suit from the ball again. “I don’t see why not.” He gestures around the crowded, noisy room. “There’s booze, gambling, what more could you want?”

Amaya rolls her eyes. “So how are we going to find Turnabout, anyway?”

“According to the file Felicity found, he’ll be by the roulette table and bet on black, then red, then black three more times,” Mick replies, slipping an arm around Amaya’s waist as he leads her past the flickering lights, slot machines, and cacophony of cursing losers and cheering winners. “We’ll have to watch and wait, from a distance anyway.”

“Why people spend so much time at these places is beyond me,” Amaya mutters, watching an off-key lounge singer out of the corner of her eye (and wincing at her rendition of “Till There Was You”). 

“People want to get lucky,” Mick says, as they settle into a couch near the roulette table. “And most of ‘em are dumb enough to think that if they spend enough time here, they’ll make a fortune.”

“But they never know when to stop, so they loose it all anyway,” Amaya mutters. Then she frowns, thinking it over. _What if we’re doing that? Taking a chance on each other over and over? That means it’s bound to go south, sooner or later._

Being with Mick means betting. Betting he won’t wake up one morning and realize he wants nothing to do with her. Betting she won’t loose control and hurt him. Betting that someone like Zoom won’t take him away from her. Betting—

Mick nudges her shoulder. “Vix, snap out of it.” He points to a new player at the roulette table. He’s African-American in his mid-thirties, dressed in jeans, a black t-shirt, black combat boots, and black gloves. But the most striking accessory is a black and white leather jacket with one red, vertical stripe on each sleeve. “That’s our guy.”

“What’s our play?”

“You flush him out, I stop him at the exit. Don’t make a big scene.”

Amaya nods, standing up. “I got this.” Slowly, she walks towards the roulette table, sidling up to the man’s side. “So. Turnabout’s fair play, is it?”

The man turns away from the table to glare at Amaya, narrowing his eyes. “Can I help you?”

She flashes a smile. “Just wondering what a guy like you is doing in a place like this. Wouldn’t have anything to do with the missing shipment of Amertek rifles, would it?”

She watches as Turnabout produces a dagger from his sleeve and slips it into his right hand. “Clear out, unless you want to know what it feels like to have your throat cut.”

“I don’t think you’d do that in such a public venue,” Amaya hisses.

He shrugs the words of casually his eyes lingering on her neck. “Might be worth it, for one of the lost totems of Zambesi.”

A hand grips his shoulder, accompanied by a familiar, gruff voice. “Don’t even think about it,” Mick says, before punching “Turnabout” in the face and knocking him to the floor. 

Suddenly, everyone’s eyes are on them, including the security guards.

“So much for not making a scene,” Amaya mutters, glaring at Mick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a warm welcome to Turnabout, the newest addition to my random cast of Earth-2 doppelgangers. He enjoys black market deals, fight clubs, and discussing conspiracy theories with Felicity via the internet (he thinks that Oliver Queen survived the Gambit's sinking and became Zoom. Somehow).


	25. Chapter 25

“Fantastic,” Amaya mutters, as she and Mick sprint out of the casino, the latter carrying “Turnabout” over his shoulder. “Not only did you manage to blow our cover, now we’re being chased by the goons of the most powerful mob boss and the gem cities.”

“I wanted to make sure he didn’t hurt you!” Mick protests, as they round a street corner and hop into the car. He tosses Turnabout into the back seat before jumping into the driver’s seat. Then he jams the keys into the ignition impatiently, jerking them to the right before taking off.

“I can handle myself,” Amaya reminds him, twisting to look in the back mirror. “I think we’re clear of tails.”

“What the hell?” Turnabout shouts, sitting up and pulling at the locked doors. “Who are you people?”

“Members of the Justice Society Initiative,” Amaya tells him. “And we need your help.”

“You think I’m going to help you?” Turnabout asks, letting out a harsh laugh. “You just interrupted my biggest sale of the year.”

“If it was your biggest sale, where was the merchandise?” Mick asks. “You didn’t seem to have it on you.”

“Like I have to tell y—” Before he can finish, Amaya turns to glare at him, her totem glowing blue.

“You said you know what this is. So you know it can summon the abilities of any animal that’s ever walked the earth. That includes the ability to secrete venoms or distribute them by biting you. So unless you want to experience a hundred different methods of dying, I’d tell us where the arms are.”

Turnabout gulps, nodding furiously. “Okay. They’re all in a storage locker on fifth street. I was going to sell the combination to the Santinis.”

“What’s in this locker?” Mick asks. “Just guns?”

Turnabout lets out another laugh. “Hardly. We’re talking nerve gas, smart bombs, military-grade virus software, everything ARGUS’s poorly-guarded warehouses had to offer.”

“What about EMP generators?” Amaya says. “Got any of those?”

Turnabout snorts. “Duh. That’s child’s play.” His eyes narrow. “Wait a second. If you’re the Justice Society, why aren’t you just getting your supplies from the police?”

“It’s complicated,” Mick mutters.

“Complicated _how_?” Turnabout asks, his voice going up an octave. “Because I’m cool with going to jail, honestly, but if you’re about to drag me into some top-secret mission against my will—”

“Would we break into the storage locker ourselves and leave you for the Santinis to find?” Amaya asks dryly.

“Fair enough,” Turnabout sighs. “So, how’s Overwatch? I’m surprised she agreed to go public with her identity.”

“She’s fine,” Mick says. “We had to leave her behind for this mission, but she’s in good hands.”

. . .

“So, what do you want to do?” Snart asks glancing over at Felicity, who’s planted on the couch, a laptop in her grip as always.

“I wouldn’t suggest Pictionary, Charades, or any type of card game,” she mutters. “Honestly, you can just go back to your office; I’ll be fine.”

“Hmm,” Snart mutters, pretending to think it over. “Nope, not gonna happen. Where’s the rest of the team, anyway?”

“Mission . . . stuff,” she says. “It’s kinda complicated.”

“In other words, I don’t want to know, do I?” he drawls.

“Not so much, no,” Felicity says. “Let’s just say we’re a little overwhelmed with investigating assassins, global corporations, arms deals, and the bats in our belfry.”

“You’re right; I don’t want to know.” Snart tosses a blue rubber ball back and forth between his hands. “How about we play a game? There’s one I used to do with my sister called ‘Fortunately, Unfortunately.’”

“How does it go?” Felicity asks, her fingers still flying over the keys—that is, until Leonard lowers the lid of her laptop slowly.

“It’s kind of like a story. I start it by saying a phrase that starts with the word ‘fortunately.’ For example: ‘Fortunately, there was once tree that could grow any fruit you wanted to eat.’ And then you would start with ‘unfortunately . . .’”

Felicity sighs. “Unfortunately . . . as soon as you grabbed a piece of fruit, it began to rot.”

Snart smiles. “Fortunately, that only happened if you didn’t wear gloves.”

“Unfortunately . . . the tree was in a nation where the glove-making industry had collapsed, after several factory fires.”

Snart smirks. “The glove-making industry?” 

Felicity shrugs. “What? Sounds like a _hand-y_ business.”

He lets out a laugh at the atrocious pun. “Fortunately, the . . . glove-makers weren’t inside the factories when they burned down.”

“Unfortunately, they all lost their jobs.”

“Fortunately, they were all hired by the sock industry.”

It’s Felicity’s turn to laugh. “The sock industry?”

“Oh, it’s a real thing, trust me. They’re always one step ahead.”

Felicity groans. “Unfortunately, the sock industry was run by the little old woman who lived in a shoe, who was also the woman who swallowed a fly. So she died.”

“Fortunately, she was replaced by one of the twelve dancing princesses, who understood the value of sturdy footwear.”

“Unfortunately, she lost all her money in a royal coup, and the company went bankrupt.”

“Fortunately, they were able to raise money with a bake sale.”

“Unfortunately . . . all the pies in the bake sale were made from the rotten fruit of the tree from the very beginning! So everyone asked for a refund!”

Snart laughs, shrugging his shoulders. “You got me, there’s no way to fix that.”

Felicity chuckles, before checking her screen again. There’s a new message from Amaya and Mick. 

Fortunately, they’ve found Turnabout’s stash.

Unfortunately?

So has the League.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, it's been a long week.
> 
> Fortunately, this was fun to write, if a bit fluffy near the end. 
> 
> I'm looking forward to seeing what else is inside that storage locker.


	26. Chapter 26

Mick’s not sure what he expected to see when they reached the storage locker, but a man in a hockey mask fighting ninjas was _not_ at the top of the list. And yet, here he is, sporting a bright blue jersey with a berserk dog on the front, and toting dual pistols. 

“What the hell, hoss?” he yells at Turnabout, even as he shoots one of his assailants in the knee. “I thought you said this place was secure!”

“A friend of yours?” Amaya mutters, even as she begins punching her way through the crowd of fighters. They’re all dressed in the same black uniforms, their faces hidden behind hoods and masks. 

“More of an associate,” Turnabout replies, joining in the fight. Amaya tosses his knife back at him, hoping it’s the right call. “An associate who was _supposed_ to be guarding this place!”

“‘Scuse me for not counting on assassins!” the other man shouts back. He aims his pistols at another assailant, but nothing happens. “Shit.” 

Amaya presses her totem, accessing flight. Then, from the air, she swoops down and shifts, mid-dive, to the force of an elephant. She lands on her enemies with a loud crash, pinning them to the ground. 

Between the two of them, Mick and Turnabout take out the rest of the men in black (of course, the second they’re done, Mick’s quick to take the knife back from him). Amaya pulls the other man, the one in the hockey mask, to his feet.

“Name?” she asks.

“Don’t I have the right to remain—”

“Name,” Mick growls, cocking his gun.

“Rene Ramirez,” he grumbles, glaring back at them. “That’s Curtis Holt.”

“Thanks,” _Curtis_ says drily. 

“Right,” Mick says, glancing at the storage facility. “So which locker is the stuff in?”

“Number five,” he replies. “The combination is 14-0-63. Left, right, left.”

“Thanks,” Mick says, before punching him _again_. Then he pulls a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and snaps them on Rene’s wrists. “Only had one pair.” 

“So what are we supposed to do about all of them?” she asks, gesturing to the assassins lying in heaps on the floor.

“Leave ‘em,” he mutters. “I already messaged Smoak, she sent a tip-off to Keystone’s police. They can clean this up.”

“I’m sure they’ll _love_ that,” Amaya murmurs, shoving Rene into the backseat of Mick’s car, along with Curtis.

As Mick turns towards the locker, his phone rings. He sighs, clicking the “answer” option.

“Hey Snart,” he says. He places the phone on his shoulder, using both hands to fiddle with the combination. 

“Do I even _want_ to know what you’ve gotten yourself into?” Snart drawls.

“What are you talking about?” Mick asks, playing dumb.

Snart scoffs. “Almost the entire team is AWOL and Felicity won’t tell me what the hell is going on. I had to look over her shoulder just to see a message from you about getting ambushed by assassins.”

“To be fair, they probably weren’t after us,” Mick explains, as the locker door swings open. “I think they were after a weapons cache.”

“That’s _very_ comforting,” Snart says drily. “I take it you managed to stop them?”

“Yeah. Vix did most of the work, though.”

“What about the rest of the team? Where are they?”

“It’s complicated,” Mick replies, beginning to sort through the piles of equipment. He pockets a couple of remote EMPs before continuing to raid the stash. (these weapons will be less dangerous in his hands than those of the Santini’s, after all).

“Don’t tell me they got captured,” Snart groans.

“Fine, then I won’t tell you that.”

“Mick,” Snart says, his voice going low. “I thought you had all of this under control.”

“I did—I mean, I do. But I think that whatever’s going on is a lot bigger than just Sara getting hurt. Every time we think we know what’s going on, we get thrown a curveball.”

“So what are the two of you going do about it?”

Mick takes a gun from the pile, examining it. It doesn’t look like any model he’s ever seen; it’s made of cold gray steel and has some sort of orange tank strapped to the side. He picks up the weapon, pulling the trigger.

Instead of bullets, a flame is released from the barrel, scorching a nearby brick wall. The fire doesn’t touch Mick, but he can feel the heat of it practically searing his skin, even after the blaze dies down to a few sizzling embers. He breathes in the lingering smoke, and smiles.

“Throw some curveballs of our own.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Mick needed a good weapon.  
> 2\. According to the Arrow wiki, the heat gun can be shorted out by an EMP. I'm just going to pretend that somehow, on Earth-2, that rule is not in effect.  
> 3\. I feel like Earth-2 Rene doesn't have a code name. He's just a crazy, gunslinging, freelance mercenary who's currently working as Turnabout's extra muscle (though they are NOT friends).  
> 4\. I'll have some extra time this week, so I might write and post more chapters to make up for missing last week.  
> 5\. Sorry I keep introducing so many minor Earth-2 dopplegangers and not big ones like Ray or most of the other legends. I just feel like it's easier to fit little cameos in here and there, when it's convenient.  
> 6\. Thanks for reading.


	27. Chapter 27

“So you’re completely on board with this?” Roy asks Thea, leaning against the wall of his cell to look at her. “Wiping out every single meta just because your boss is scared?"

“The Demon’s Head isn’t acting out of fear,” Thea replies with a glare. “She’s taking the necessary precautions. The world is dangerous enough without meta-humans in it.”

“Right,” Roy says drily, before letting out a laugh. He stares at Thea for a second, hearing his chuckle bounce off the walls, echoing before fading into silence. “You wanna know something funny?”

“What?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I bet Malcolm Merlyn would’ve said the same thing about the people who lived in the Glades,” he says, moving to stand up. He walks forward, as far as the chain will allow. “But he was wrong. And hundreds of people paid the price for it.”

He leans forward, grabbing the bars with his hands, staring at Thea. She’s wearing a poker face, complete with motionless lips and level eyebrows, but her gaze is starting to weaken. “I bet you think you’re better than him, but the truth is, you’re exactly alike. Cold, heartless—”

“Enough,” she hisses, stepping forward. She pulls out a sai, pressing the tip of it against Roy’s throat. “I’m nothing like Malcolm.”

“Prove it,” he says, reaching out to wrap his hand around hers, but still not removing the weapon. “Let us out of here. See what a couple of good metahumans can do.”

Thea lets out a scoff, pulling Roy even closer by the collar, even as she drops the sai. “You think you can just manipulate me into letting you escape?”

“Well, I left my knockout lipstick at home, so this was Plan B,” he says with a smirk, not even bothering to pull his gaze off her lips. But before Thea can respond, the room turns pitch black. And suddenly, Roy’s inhibitor cuff just falls right off his wrist.

“What did you do?” she growls, tightening her grip on Roy.

“Honestly? Nothing,” he says with a shrug. “Guess the calvary’s finally here.” Then he shifts his right arm into a bat before knocking her out. He hears the sound of her body hitting the ground and winces, before calling “Hey, Jesse. Did your cuffs stop working too?” Then he turns his arm into a lock pick and gets to work on his chains.

“Yeah,” she calls, vibrating through the bars of her cell. “I think someone set off an electromagnetic pulse that deactivated the inhibitor tech.”

“Good for you,” Hartley mutters. “But those of us without superpowers could use a hand.”

As if on cue, Amaya kicks in the door, Mick at her side, wearing a pair of thick goggles. In his hands is a gleaming new gun with a bright orange barrel, illuminated by the flames streaking from its tip that scorch the guards Thea left.

“Well, it took you long enough,” Hartley mutters grudgingly. Mick rolls his eyes, even as he begins unlocking his cell doors. 

“Nice to see you too,” he mutters, yanking the door open and undoing Hartley’s chains. “So. Anyone want to tell us what the hell’s going on?”

“Thea Queen works for the League of Assassins, which wants to make invincible bat warriors in order to destroy metahumans, since we’re all evil. Apparently,” Jesse says, with mock-cheerfulness. “So what’s new with you?”

“The usual,” Amaya says, as they exit the dungeons. “Tracking down black market weapons dealers, fighting off assassins, interrogating said assassins for the location of captured teammates. You know how it is.”

“Nice gun,” Roy says, glancing at Mick.

He shrugs. “Seemed like a waste to leave it lying around.” He turns to Jessie. “Hey, kid—you wanna check the perimeter real quick? I think we took out most of the ninjas, but you might wanna be sure.”

Jesse takes off in a blur of gold and scarlet. In a manner of ten seconds, she’s back, stopping to catch her breath. “They’re all down.”

“That was a little slow,” Hartley notes. 

“I stuck all the assassins in the cells and locked them in,” Jesse explains. “It’s a little tight, but they should be secure until the CCPD gets here.” 

“Do you think that’s the end of it?” Roy asks, as they walk out of the League’s stronghold. 

“Maybe,” Hartley says. “Maybe not. I doubt that was the entire League of Assassins, but once word gets back to the Demon’s Head, she might think twice about messing with metahumans.” He glances at Mick. “Or anyone else in the Justice Society, for that matter.”

“We might still have to deal with Langstrom,” Jesse points out. “Unless we can get them those assassins to testify against him, we still don’t have much proof on that front.”

“Let’s just call it a win for now,” Mick says.

“Is this what it’s like all the time?” Roy asks Jesse. “Being a superhero, I mean. Manbats, assassins, conspiracies . . .”

Jessie just grins, thinking about her life. _Don’t forget time travel, alternate dimensions, and doppelgängers._

“Yeah,” she says, clapping him on the back. “This is exactly what it’s like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Earth-2's Demon's Head is Talia al Ghul.
> 
> 2\. Expect an epilogue next week.
> 
> 3\. At this point, I'd say this work is canon divergent, since I'm not sure where it fits into The Flash's timeline.


	28. Epilogue

1\. Roy

_Bats in the Belfry: Justice Society Uncovers Conspiracy._

That’s the front-page headline from an article Eddie Thawne, and it’s almost enough. Almost. Underneath it is another article by Julian Albert. Its headline reads:

_Former Billionaire on the Run: Thea Queen Escapes Custody._

Roy sighs, looking at the (admittedly, attractive) mugshot of her. It just figures she’d find a way to disappear, though he had a feeling she’d show up again.

Of course, that assessment wasn’t Roy’s intuition as much as the fact that he’d woken up to find a red dahlia on his nightstand and a lipstick imprint on his cheek. There’d been a note with the flower that read: _See you around, “Hal.”_

Roy wiped the lipstick off almost immediately before hiding both the flower and the note. Still, there’s a part of him that thinks maybe what he said about Merlyn got through to her, somehow. 

_She was in my room last night,_ he thinks. _She could’ve killed me But she didn’t. Metahuman or not._

It's a start.

 

2\. Hartley

It’s everything he can do to pick up the phone, instead of hurling it across the room the second he sees the caller ID. Taking a deep breath, he hits “accept” and presses the phone against his ear.

“Yes?” he mutters, gritting his teeth.

“Hartley?” a woman’s voice asks. “It’s me, your mother.”

“Really,” he says drily. “Because I thought it was just the Hood using a call spoofer.”

His mother sighs. “Listen, I . . . I know that your father and I haven’t always agreed with your decisions. And I understand that we can’t expect to go back to being a happy, normal family overnight.” 

Hartley scoffs. _We were never that perfect._

She continues: “But I want you to know . . . _we_ want you to know that we’re proud of you.”

“What are you talking about?” he says cautiously. Those are words he’s rarely heard from his parents, if he’s even heard them at all.

“Hartley, we recognize your tech. We know you’re a part of the Justice Society,” she says, matter-of-factly. “And while it’s not . . . exactly the life we planned out for you, we’re glad that you’re using your gifts to help people.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “Hey, I’m a Rathaway. It’s what we do, right?”

 

3\. Jesse and Felicity

“How’d you get your speed?” Felicity asks her one night. They’re sitting in the kitchen as Jesse paints Felicity’s nails (having solemnly sworn not to use pastels). 

Jesse sighs, brushing a drop of _Midnight Ebony_ onto Felicity’s left pinky. “That’s a bit of a long story. And you wouldn’t even believe half of it.”

Felicity snorts. “I live in a house with two other metahumans, the wielder of a mystic totem, and a hypnotist. Try me.”

Jesse mulls it over. Felicity’s her teammate. Teammates trust each other with their lives. Shouldn’t they be able to trust each other with secrets (even those of the earth-shaking variety)?

And, if worst comes to worst, she can always pull a Barry Allen: go back thirty minutes and stop herself from telling Felicity.

“Okay,” she starts. “What do you know about multiverse theory?”

 

4\. Amaya and Mick

“What’ve you got there?” she asks, watching him sort through files and paperwork.

“Just considering some additions to the team,” he says, looking through a folder labeled _Ramirez, Rene._ “Who do you think Hartley would mind rooming with more: Turnabout or Hockey Mask?”

“Tough call,” she says. “Probably Hockey Mask. And I can only imagine what it would be like to have Turnabout and Roy share the same room for even five seconds.”

“But imagine the entertainment value,” Mick says with a grin. Amaya leans down to kiss him not the cheek, and he turns, capturing her lips with his own. 

“You might want to be careful,” she whispers, breaking apart, her breath warm on his neck. “Wouldn’t want too many felons on the team.”

“Don’t worry,” he mutters, as she kisses his neck. “You’re my favorite.”

 

5\. Leonard and Sara

“For the fiftieth time, we are not changing the location of town hall!” he snarls.

“It’s so exposed!” she yells. “There are at least fifteen positions from nearby businesses that a sniper could use to take you out!”

“Oh, really?” he drawls, stepping forward. “Like what?”

“The motel, the library, the park, the new Italian restaurant—”

He cuts her off, waving a hand. “You know what? You’re absolutely right.” Then, before she can respond, he picks the phone of his desk, dialing a number.

“What are you doing?” she hisses. 

_Trust me,_ he mouths, before speaking into the phone. “Hello? I’d like to make a reservation for this Saturday at seven o’clock. Two, under the name Lance. Thanks.” Then he hangs up and smirks at her.

“Reservation for two?” she asks, with an eyebrow raised.

“Me. And you,” he replies. “After all, how are we really going to know if a sniper could take me out from that restaurant unless we do some thorough investigation?”

She smiles at him, stepping closer. “Sounds like a date, _Leonard._ ”

“Is that alright?” he asks, dropping the teasing tone from his voice. She pulls him closer, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning up to kiss him on the cheek.

“It’s perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear, Jesse and Felicity are just friends (nothing shippy going on there).
> 
> Thanks for all your reading and support! 
> 
> Also: 
> 
> If you're looking for yet another superhero show to get hooked on, try FX's Legion. I'm practically addicted to it
> 
> Which of these alignments by Trufflemores (http://trufflemores.tumblr.com/post/158737235646/fanfic-alignments) do you think I am? I'm genuinely curious. Be honest.


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